The Diamond Lane (44 page)

“Michael and Tooty are so courageous,” the other woman said, shaking her head in wonder. “So … authentic.”

“Someone said when they finished the remodeling, Michael and Tooty were in France for a few months so they flew her parents out from Boston just to hang out, give it that lived-in feel. Her mother baked and her father smoked his pipe in front of the fire. I don't think they slept here, though. Tooty didn't want it that lived-in. Leaving that old-people smell on everything.”

“The mildew is a nice touch, though.”

“I love the mildew.”

“Excuse me,” Mouse said, “are you sure there's someone in there?”

“I hope not,” said the same woman, who nodded. “It's a closet. Then to her friend, “All the closets are lined with a special kind of cedar planking you can only find in Shaker farmhouses.”

Meantime, V.J. and Tony had moved on to hard liquor. Ralph and Elaine drifted off to talk to a producer friend of Ralph's who claimed he knew someone who might be interested in
Girls on Gaza
.

V.J. introduced Tony to several wonderful girls. Even though they were the small, big-breasted variety Tony liked, they beamed up at him idiotically, their pretty eyes less intelligent than those of that smelly dog of Mimi's, rendering them utterly undesirable. In a far corner of his mind Tony was beginning to wonder what the devil happened to Mouse, although he was
relieved he didn't have to worry about her embarrassing him in front of V.J. She had undoubtedly found some Ghanian national to chat up, or perhaps a coven of brides-to-be with whom to compare wedding notes. He smiled to himself. Enjoy your exalted prenuptial status while you can, my dear.

One of the bartenders, a fellow Brit, had slipped Tony a bottle of scotch, which Tony had adroitly hidden on a window ledge behind an antique weather vane in the shape of a schooner.

He had seen that business with Ivan. The dumb girl kept forgetting how tall he was. He had seen her, standing there coyly, those black-velvet fuck-me pumps dangling from her hand, Ivan's paws all over her, whispering in her ear. Perhaps they'd just come from a frolic on the beach, a tryst under the deck, a romp among the elephants. He threw down a slug of scotch. He was a morose, irritable drunk, and because he was, he punished himself by getting drunker, thereby more morose, more irritable.

Besides the upcoming auction and African dance demonstration, the elephants were the main attraction of the fundraiser. There were two of them, male and female, kept in a large pen on the beach. Michael Brass had purchased them from Zimbabwe, and after tonight was donating them to the San Diego Zoo. Two Latino zookeepers in safari suits kept watch over them in the moonlight. Michael Brass encouraged everyone to go out and stroke their tusks. Tony imagined Mouse had been out there stroking Ivan's tusk! A pang of self-pity and desire shot through his long bones. She didn't know how lucky she was to have him! He was tall, he was smart, he was
English
. Well, he would find himself someone willing, someone appreciative. But willing, appreciative girls bored him. Mouse was the one who interested him. He sighed, drained his glass again. He was doomed to be a cuckold. He refilled V.J.'s glass.

“Nobody drinks anymore, you notice?” said V.J. “We do because we're Kenyans. I'm a Kenyan in spirit. Do I look like a Kenyan to you? In spirit? I got this in Nairobe.” He fingered the
fabric of his
longhi
. “Best days of my life. People there don't worry about, for example, frequent-flyer programs. I fly all over the goddamn country, they never record it, so I have to go and rustle up the goddamn ticket and copy it and send it to some mysterious fucking PO box and then it takes them nine months to credit my account, you know what I mean?” Under the influence of the scotch, V.J. had lost his Kenyan accent.

“Hmm,” said Tony.

“It's modern life. I'm not saying people should be hungry, you know I'm not saying that. But hunger is a real thing. You're worried you're not going to have enough food. It makes sense. But we have food, so all that energy gets spent worrying about not having our frequent-flyer account credited.”

“Hmm,” said Tony.

“The richest man and the poorest man has the same amount of worry in him. This is what I learned, from Africa and from Hollywood. The richest man, the poorest man, same amount of worry. But the rich man, his worry goes for useless, stupid things. Food is a thing, shelter is a thing, disease is a thing, clothing is a thing. Frequent-flyer programs are not a thing. It makes your soul feel like a used condom tossed out a car window, worrying about your frequent-flyer program. But what am I supposed to do, not worry? Lose all those miles?” V.J. pulled off his skullcap and mopped his forehead miserably. “Don't get me wrong. I love Hollywood.”

“Speaking of which,” said Tony, “I've taken the liberty of dropping the wedding scene. The Tony character and the Mouse character
don't
get married in the end.”

“The wedding scene?”

“In the script.”

“Great. Whatever.”

Tony got the distinct impression that V.J. wasn't sure what he was talking about. He rubbed his upper lip nervously. “Thought you were sort of partial to that scene. Happy ending, all that.”

“You and Ralph are the
artists
, old boy. I'm just the facilitator. You want to put in a wedding scene –”

“– I've taken it out. The one we've had from the first draft. Actually, it was never true anyway. Took a bit of poetic license. It's the only part of the whole story that was fabricated, I assure you. Mouse and I, we're actually not even married. In the new ending he finds out she's been cheating on him and leaves Africa altogether.”

“Terrif. Look, here's someone from the documentary.” V.J. looked past him, his philosophical ramblings a part of the distant past.

“I'll have the new draft on your desk Monday, if that's all right.”

“Maybe they'll want to do an interview, two mates from Nairobe.”

Tony turned to see Ivan Esparza making his way toward them through the crowd. He slid the bottle back behind the weather vane, slouched against the wall.

“Tony, good to see you, man.”

Tony ignored Ivan's outstretched hand. “Ivan Esparza, V.J. Parchman.”

“Where are you from?” asked Ivan, staring at V.J.'s hairy bowlegs as they shook hands.

V.J. laughed bitterly. “Pasadena.”

“We're old friends from Nairobi, V.J. and I. He's producing a script of mine, provided we get a go from the studio.”

“They say it's a fantastic place.”

“The studio? We like it.”

“Nairobi. Mouse loved it there.”

“Ah. Mouse.”

“How is your nose? I hope she has talked to you about shooting your sequences.”

Shooting his sequences, indeed! Tony would like nothing better than to take out a row of this jerk's teeth, but the thought
of it made his nose throb. Besides, the New Tony was above that sort of behavior.

“How's it going? Shooting with Mouse?”

Ivan stared at him, hands on his hips. “I was married to her sister, you know.”

“Busy little bastard, aren't you?”

“I knew we should have talked about this before.”

“Really. Before what?”

“I cannot get into this now,” said Ivan. “They're ready to start the auction. V.J., my pleasure. One day perhaps you'll tell me more about your experiences in Africa.”

“Hey, all right.”

Ivan joined the cameraman at the front of the room. Michael Brass stood wringing his hands apologetically in front of a table set up by the fireplace. On display were ebony carvings, Maasai beaded jewelry and weapons, wooden masks, baskets, Someone had dragged in an ancient podium and thrust a gavel into the hand of the talentless but handsome actor who was privileged to play auctioneer.

“Tooty and I are thrilled you all could make it. We would especially like to welcome our friends from Tanzania, Gabon, Taiwan, and Zimbabwe. We thank you not on our own behalf, but on behalf of the elephants. In the last ten years more than four hundred thousand elephants have been slaughtered, most of them with the use of automatic weapons …” Michael Brass rolled out the horrific statistics.

Tony had heard them many times before. Where was Mouse, anyway? He looked around the room at all the smooth upturned faces.

Michael Brass explained that the idea of the auction was to encourage native handicrafts in the hopes of discouraging the trade in ivory. It was a heroic, misguided notion. No three-dollar basket was going to compete with the millions of dollars Hong Kong businessmen forked over for a few tons of ivory
every year. Tony pulled the bottle of scotch from behind the weather vane, topped off his glass.

“… the poacher is typically an illiterate villager living in poverty. He sells a tusk for forty dollars, which a businessman in Japan will turn around and sell for one thousand …”

After he gave Mouse the boot, would she take up with Ivan? Tony swallowed a belch. She'd be sorry when he was a top screenwriter, pulling down a few million a script. Poor elephants. They really didn't have a chance.

He felt someone's eyes on him. A few feet away, a woman admired him. She was in her fifties. About thirty years ago someone had told her she looked like Brigitte Bardot and she'd never forgotten it. She wore white stretch pants tucked into white boots, a white hand-knit curve-clinging sweater. She had big rings, teeth, and breasts, little eyes, legs, and tact. Tony toasted her with the bottle of scotch.

“Noni Bertlestein,” whispered V.J. “Minimall magnate.”

“Worth millions, no doubt.”

“Maybe she's interested in putting money into a movie.”

Tony waggled his eyebrows at her. Noni Bertlestein pursed her wrinkled, heavily lipsticked lips.

“And so,” said Michael Brass, “with only a bit more ado – please bear with me – I'd like to introduce someone here tonight who's worked on the front lines, as a member of one of the Kenyan Wildlife Federation's anti-poaching patrols. Rumor is, he captured quite a few single-handedly. Tony Cheatham, are you here?”

Tony dropped his eyelids, affecting what he supposed was a languid sexy gaze. He stared at Noni Bertlestein's magnificent breasts. Why not? She had them out there like a crook selling watches on a street corner. Being a nice chap got you nowhere. He reluctantly let his gaze catch hers. She cocked her head, bit her lips.

“Tony Cheatham?” said Michael Brass.

“Tony,” hissed V.J.

He took a swig from the bottle. Fuck the glass. The thing you always had to remember about women was that they were like those people who said, “Don't get me anything for Christmas,” then were upset when you didn't. Women didn't want respect. They said they did. In fact, they were perfectly happy if you just ogled their –

“TONY! The man wants you!” V.J. elbowed him, panic-stricken.

Noni Bertlestein is a man? What? Suddenly V.J. plucked the bottle from his fingers, pushed him up to the front of the room. A round of polite applause. What the – had he bid for something and didn't know it? No, the auction hadn't started yet. Walking confirmed his worst suspicions. He was dead drunk. He could not tell his feet from his shoes. The sides of his head felt as though they were curling toward each other. Michael Brass put an arm around him. “So, please tell us.”

“Yes, Michael, certainly.” He cleared his throat. The scotch rolled back up his esophagus. Would he vomit on Tooty Brass's antique hook rug? Dear Lord. “What is it you wish to know.”

“Well.” Michael laughed. “Anything you think is relevant.”

“Relevant. Oh dear. Bit dodgy, that. Relevant.” Tony wondered if perhaps he was supposed to be answering questions about the items up for auction. He picked up a carving. “This is an elephant.” Obviously. “An elephant carved … carved by Africans.”

“How many are out there, Mr. Cheatham, at this very minute, would you say?” asked Tooty, her brow furrowed with concern.

“Thousands, I should say. Hundreds of thousands.”

“They must be
everywhere
,” cried a woman with a foreign accent.

“Yes. We had a half dozen or so in Nairobi. You can pick them up anywhere.”

“You had them in your
home?
Shouldn't they be locked up or something?”

“Oh no, I shouldn't think so.”

“You believe in death, then,” said Michael.

“I'd say the evidence is quite conclusive.” Tony laughed. That was a good one.

Mouse, who had been loitering on the fringes of the party, went outside for a smoke. Tony drunk was not one of the world's more appealing sights. A member of the Kenyan Wildlife Federation anti-poaching patrol? What had he been telling people? And why? What was apparent was that he had been trying to hoodwink some Hollywood person into thinking he was more than just a humble documentary filmmaker. Mouse was surprised to find she was intrigued, not angry. It was so un-Tony-like.