The Hollywood Guy (26 page)

“Okay, thou a day plus expenses.”

“In cash. Put some info together on the missing persons, email me. Don’t worry, we’ll find Desirée.”

“I’m in love with Cleo.”

“Whatever, two for the price of one. Great working with you again, amigo.” He hangs up.

Did Pete actually hire his friend Bobby for a grand a day plus expenses, to find Cleo/Desirée? Maybe his mental health is suspect?

George is sweeping the gallery when Pete steps through the door. “The Hollywood guy returns.” He actually smiles like maybe he’s happy to see Pete.

“Cleo’s gone, I think she might have been kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?”

“They took the dog, left her car.”

“Kidnappers like to kill dogs, sends a message. Why would she leave? She was excited to be working with you.”

Pete eyes George suspiciously, “How do you know that?”

“She loved the gallery, came in all the time.”

Pete has one of his pre-cognitive flashes. “Did you?”

George turns away embarrassed, fills a kettle with water. “Cup of tea?”

“George! You got it on with Cleo?”

“No, but I did it once with Desirée, upstairs in the framing room. She loved the view of the stream. I paid her with the Calla Lilly print.”

“You may have fucked Desirée but Cleo ended up with the photograph. I thought you were back with Wendy”

“Desirée was a one time thing.”

“What about betraying me?”

“You were with Cleo.”

“If I were a better person, I’d say, go fuck yourself, George.”

“But you’re not.”

“No.”

“I appreciate that, Pete.”

Jackson and the Sidewinders are rehearsing in the barn when Pete enters. They’re excited to see him. He’s uptight trying to frame the bad news positively. “I was naïve in assuming your sound would fly in LA.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

“The Sidewinders weren’t for him.”

“The exec hated our demo?”

“Too retro,” he said.

Jackson and the rest of the band are confused by this classification.

Pete, downcast, explains. “I fucked up, the production was too raw. He didn’t get it, my bad.”

“That’s just not true, Mr. Stevens, you captured the way we play. Maybe we are too raw for LA, but it’s who we are and people round here dig our sound. Next Saturday, the Sidewinders play Club Helsinki in Hudson and the week after, the Hickory Barbecue on Rt. 28.”

“I truly believed the demo would get the band signed.”

“I’m sure Annabeth did her best.”

Pete nods: the kid is optimistic like his mother. Maybe he’s right, it all starts right here in Woodstock.

“When she coming back?”

Another question Pete would rather not answer. “Annabeth is on a plane to Paris.”

Jackson is shocked. “Really? I thought….”

“She’s going to email you.”

The kid can defend his music but not his heart. “Is that how things work in LA?”

“Pretty much.”

“That is so fucked.”

“She’ll be back Jackson, she always comes back.”

A soft rain falls. The Streamside is devoid of customers. Cleo took Dicey and left a scented note, “Desirée needs me.” Pete opens the door to unit 15 and steps inside. Everything is as she left it. He pulls back the blanket revealing love stains on the sheets and several strands of pubic hair. Carefully he places them in the lavender envelope. His cell phone rings, Bobby. “Talk to me.”

Bobby speaks in a hushed voice. “Found out a couple of things about your girl.”

“Which one?”

“Desirée married her boyfriend, Roy, the guy who discovered her. He has a company based in Ventura, very successful. She hasn’t made a flick in two years. That’s where I think she is.”

“Why do you think she’s back with Roy?”

“Because it’s rumored Desirée is making a new picture for him.”

“Where?”

“Working on that.”

“What about the Hayworth?”

“Cleo Johnson doesn’t have an apartment there nor did she grow up in Marshalltown, Iowa.”

“How do you know?”

“I checked the names of the graduating class in the two High Schools from ’96 to ’99. No Cleo Johnson, no Desirée Johnson.”

“She was homecoming queen.”

“I’m still waiting for some hard facts, amigo.”

“You won’t believe any of it.”

“Try me.”

“Carlos Esparza, the Mexican drug lord, was gunned down by the CIA and died in Desirée’s arms.”

“Right, I won’t. Want to talk about last night’s game?”

“Who’s up two to one?”

Pete and Jaime sit in his office reviewing what they know; she takes the note out of the envelope, finds the pubic hair. “Precious?”

Pete nods. “Why would Carlos’s gang smuggle Desirée back to the States?”

“Doesn’t make sense if she was their priestess.”

“Exactly, they would keep her safe, or die protecting her. Cleo said it was CIA contractors who took Carlos out.”

“Why didn’t they kill her?”

“She must have worked for them, set Carlos up. They got her out, paid her off and she disappeared to write her memoirs.”

“She couldn’t go home to Petaluma, her parents disowned her.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Winona Ryder’s from Petaluma. They went to the same high school.”

Pete can see where this is leading. “She told me she was from Marshalltown.”

“Wherever she’s from, if the cartel found her, she’s dead. If the CIA has her, she’s permanently disappeared.”

“Bobby thinks she went back to Roy.”

“I’m sure she was done with him.”

“Did you know Desirée fucked George and made him pay for it?”

“It wasn’t like that with me and Cleo.”

“One way or the other, you pay.”

Pete drives across the valley to see Brother Ray. The monk sits outside meditating. Pete settles into half lotus beside him, closes his eyes, stilling his exhausted mind. He doesn’t analyze or fabricate possible scenarios regarding Cleo/Desirée’s disappearance; he doesn’t relive some past sexual moment. Today he finally succeeds in emptying his consciousness of all useless chatter. Like birds on a wire, master and pupil, sit quietly. It’s dark when Brother Ray finally rises. Pete’s legs are so numb he’s hardly able to walk. Without speaking, they go inside and Pete shows Brother Ray how to make his special oatmeal with bananas and raisins. When it’s ready, they eat in silence.

The day ends with Pete falling asleep in front of the TV as the Yanks beat the Angels in a laugher, 10-1, going up three games to one in the best of seven series. Tomorrow is an off day.

Mist shrouds the field fronting the Downing farmhouse. Mary Ann takes Little Petey’s hand and leads him toward the kitchen door. They go inside.

Desirée, naked, climbs the stairs to the attic bedroom. Pete follows her up, stops in the doorway. Cleo stands in the far corner of the room; her pale skin glistens in the soft light. She winks playfully.

S
ipping his morning coffee in front of the computer, Pete relishes the praise for CC Sabathia who pitched eight strong innings last night on three days rest. The fact that he slept through most of the game doesn’t bother him at all.

The win puts him in the mood to clean house starting with Annabeth’s room. Her ashtray overflows, interesting because he and Barbara quit smoking for the baby’s sake. Pete never resumed but Barbara started again around the time of their break-up. Recently, Annabeth admitted that she had her first cigarette at twelve with the girl next door whom was two years older and stole her mother’s filtered Camels.

In her early years, Pete and his daughter were very close. They shared a love for music and nature, movies and popcorn and of course ice cream. When she reached puberty, she lost interest in hiking, whale watching, or going to Angels/Yankees games in Anaheim. Annabeth’s social schedule, activities and boyfriends left little time for her parents, especially Pete. She was closer to her mother anyway, siding with Barbara in every domestic dispute, especially during the divorce proceedings. It was a big deal for her to finally visit him in Woodstock. And what did he do? He sent her back to LA to pitch a pervert, or so said Barbara. That it was Annabeth’s idea or that she broke Jackson’s heart, not a peep.

The phone rings, breaking his reverie. It’s Bobby: his tone is professional, serious, inspiring confidence. “At the time of his murder, drug boss Carlos Esparza was engaged to Estella Rodriguez a local señorita from a good family in Xalapa. Her family was aghast and forbade the marriage of their daughter to a narco. They are the prime suspects in his murder, but no charges have been filed.”

“Is the fiancée a blond?”

“Yeah.”

“Bobby, it’s an obvious cover-up. Don’t you see?”

“Pete, I don’t know who murdered Carlos Esparza nor do I know the whereabouts of Cleo Johnson, or if she even exists. What I do know is that Desirée and her husband Roy are on location in Oxnard shooting a movie.”

“How do you know?”

“I have the call sheet.”

Pete manages to catch the 7
PM
flight from Albany and after changing planes in Atlanta, arrives at LAX around 10 PM, wired. Bobby, casually dressed in black and sporting a phony moustache, holds up a hand lettered sign for P. Stevens. “Catch a ballgame while you’re here?”

“I remember that moustache.”

“So does my Emmy.” He effortlessly slips into character. “You have my retainer?”

Pete humors him. “Take a credit card?”

“Cash only, like I said.”

“I know what you said.”

“So why are we having this conversation? Did you hire me to find a missing person? Am I not on her tail?”

They go to an ATM machine. “I have a five hundred dollar limit.”

“Five today, five tomorrow,” says Bobby. Pete fumes as he withdraws the cash, hands it over. The PI counts ten crisp fifties, smiles. “Hungry? My treat.”

“First the Hayworth.”

“She doesn’t live there.”

“Is that my money in your hand?”

Bobby hugs Pete. “Great having you back, amigo.”

“I hope you didn’t tell anyone I’m in town.”

“Discretion is part of my job description.”

Driving west on Sunset, they are drenched in orange neon - LA is a great convertible town. Bobby turns left at the DGA; Heidi once lived down the hill on the fifteenth floor of the Hayworth, a Deco apartment tower built in the twenties – hopefully, so does Cleo.

“Bumped into wife number two a couple of months ago. She has to be over fifty, looked great. Remember those tits? Still has them only better than ever. You know she’s a big executive at Sony?”

Pete’s not interested in Heidi’s artificial boobs; they never were an erogenous zone for him. He studies the Hayworth apartment directory - no Johnson, but there is a Seberg. “Look!”

“What?”

“Seberg, 12B. She rented an apartment assuming the name of her idol, makes complete sense.”

“I’ll follow up tomorrow.”

“No, ring the bell now.”

“It’s way too late.”

“If she’s not home, it won’t matter.”

“If she is, she won’t answer. Then what, we break in? Come on, I have a treat for you.”

Canter’s, a classic Jewish deli a few blocks away on Fairfax, is a shrine to corned beef and pastrami and equally renowned for its bakery. A bright display case temptingly offers strudel, babka, rugelach, plus assorted breads like corn rye, raisin pumpernickel and challah. Across the tile floor is a refrigerated display of sturgeon, slabs of nova plus a variety of pickles, coleslaw, and potato salad. The smell of meat saturates the air. During the day canes and walkers assist an older clientele but the nighttime crowd trends young and hip; the vibe is lively.

Pete gazes longingly at the pastry cases before following Bobby into the dining room and sliding into a red leatherette booth.

Handsome wannabe actors wait tables alongside gnarled professionals. Ignoring the ten page menu, Pete orders a combo: cup of matzo ball noodle soup, half a corned beef on rye and a Doctor Brown’s Cel Ray soda, weird to all but those who love it.

“How do you want your corned beef?”

“Lean.”

Bobby orders a bagel and lox plate, cup of coffee.

“Good choice.” The waiter does a time step as he backs away.

When Pete first came to town he ate here because it made him feel New York. As his original east coast identity faded, he needed the ambience less and less. When he met Barbara, she was a vegetarian and Canter’s was off-limits. Even after she resumed eating flesh, Barbara avoided the place and broke him of the habit. This is Pete’s first deli experience in a long time. It feels good to be back. He scans the noisy room. The young women favor bold haircuts with unusual coloring; there are shaved heads or buzz cuts for the men, tattoos and sunglasses for everyone.

Pete flashes on Jamie’s labia. “What’s your take on body piercing?”

Bobby shudders. “Self mutilation creeps me out.” He slips on his signature
Nasty
Persol’s in serious detective mode. “Was Cleo a mutilator?”

“No, she even had a full bush.”

“Maybe she was hiding something.”

“Piercing sensitizes the genital area.” The waiter opines, serving the food with a flourish.

“Nice moves. Broadway?”

“I did a revival of West Side Story at City Center.”

Bobby smiles. “Grease.”

“My mom took me to see your Danny for my sixth birthday. I’m from New Jersey.”

Bobby is stricken. “Was my Danny that long ago?”

Pete is about to ask another genital piercing question when Barbara and David waltz into the restaurant and make a beeline to their table. The agent sits down next to Pete, his ex-wife opposite alongside Bobby. This doesn’t feel like a coincidence.

“Always the combo, you are so predictable.” Barbara orders. “Half a cantaloupe with cottage cheese.”

“I’m predictable?”

“Rice pudding, no whipped cream and a decaf,” adds David.

Pete throws Bobby an accusatory look. “What happened to professional discretion?”

Barbara reaches across the table and takes Pete’s hands. “Honey, don’t be mad at your best friend, we’re the people who care about you.”

Bobby covers their hands with his. “We love you.”