The Hollywood Guy (9 page)

“Who did I make love to last night?”

“The blow job was Desirée, the fuck was your writing partner.”

Lunch with the locals, Pete sits next to Richard the cabinetmaker. “Tell me about Kurt Van Dusan? Good lawyer?”

“For what?”

“Possession with intent to sell, first time offender.”

“Aren’t you too old to be a first time offender?”

“Don’t give me a hard time.”

“Van Dusan knows everyone.”

Steve, the trumpet player plumber, is showing Cleo a photo of a Roman temple. Turns out he was an archeology major and goes to Italy on digs every summer.

“I lived in Venice for awhile,” she tells him, “in a palazzo, ghosts everywhere. Winter when it flooded, the rats came up into the house.”

Pete’s cell phone rings - Marcus Bergman. Why does this smart man want to offer him a job? He goes outside to take the call.

“Don’t flake on me, Pete.”

“Who’s flaking? You asked for pages, I delivered.”

“And the light turned green, buddy. Everybody loves the pilot, love it. David D’s deal is being made as we speak. We need to sit down and talk because it’s obvious you impacted the arc of the series.”

“Mr. Bergman, I rewrote the pilot for my friend Bobby Fields whom you fired.”

“I love Bobby, invent another character for him to play.”

Pete laughs. “Like an impotent investment banker who’s a suspect for murder?”

“Did you say important?”

“I said the character can’t get it up.”

“Interesting notion, flip Bobby Fields’ legendary reputation as a ladies’ man. See this is why I want you to be my showrunner. We have chemistry. Got to take this call.” He hangs up, never a goodbye from Marcus Bergman.

Pete calls Bobby.

“Why are you calling me, you fuck?”

“I’m writing you back into the series.”

“I don’t believe you.” He hangs up.

Cleo steps outside. “Your food is waiting.”

“Why do you care if I eat?”

“Because I like you.” She kisses him. Actually this is the first time their lips meet meaningfully but Pete is self-conscious because all of Lori’s regulars are sharing the moment through the window.

Pete’s music archive in all formats takes up too much space in his office, but he can’t bring himself to divest of his vinyl, five thousand LP’s collected before he switched to the CD format. Only Jackson has shown any interest in the collection. Now here’s Cleo eating a cranberry chocolate chip oatmeal cookie, flipping through albums the kid’s been listening to: Lightning’ Hopkins, Eddie Hinton, Clifton Chenier, “Blond on Blond”, the soulful Memphis horn man Sonny Jackson. Cleo puts on Sonny’s record.

Pete loads a corncob pipe, fires up and takes a hit. “You know I’m being offered a big writing assignment so I’m a bit pre-occupied.” He takes another hit, passes the pipe.

“Didn’t you tell me you were done with Hollywood?” She smokes.

“I am. I’m done.” He can’t resist doing a Pacino imitation. “Just when you think you’re out, they pull you back in.”

“Are you saying you changed your mind about our project?”

“Last night was a shock to my system.” He takes the pipe back from her.

“We agreed it was a one time thing.” She picks up a ballpoint pen with her toes, writes Cleo and Desirée’s names in Pete’s daybook along with yesterday’s date. “Turn on the recorder and I’ll tell you the rest of my story.”

“I came twice.”

“No big deal.”

“Sharing your most private space is no big deal?”

“I went from virgin to adult film star in three years. A lot of men have been inside my body but that doesn’t mean they can penetrate my private space.” She points to her head.

Pete turns on the recorder. “Say that again.”

“Fuck you. I want to talk about Desirée, how she changed after turning pro. She loved screwing everyone.” Cleo lies down on the chaise.

“I thought Desirée and Roy were a team?”

“They shared a bond but how can you be with one person?”

“Was she a nympho?”

“Coming was easy for her.”

“Did she get off?”

“She liked sex.” She puffs on the pipe.

“Tell me about Venice, did you really spend time there?”

“Absolutely.”

“With Roy?”

“They broke up. She was doing a film without him that was a nightmare. We never realized how much he protected her. The producers wanted D to fuck two guys, vaginal and anal at the same time. Double penetration was not her thing so they compromised. She would fuck one and blow the other. That’s when I told her about Venice, I always dreamed of going there. She imagined herself in Venezia while she did the scene.” She closes her eyes, her voice goes dreamy. “Twenty-four hours after the wrap we’re gondoling up the Grand Canal, everything magic in the winter light. I met Renzo the day after I arrived. He was from a very old family. I stayed with them in their palazzo.”

“How did you meet?”

“On a guided tour. I wandered into the private quarters looking for a bathroom. Renzo was coming out of the shower. I pretended to be embarrassed.”

“Cute.”

“His mother asked me to stay for lunch. La Contessa was an assertive woman, educated in England. She feared that her son was gay. Would I seduce him? Renzo might have been effeminate and a mamma’s boy, but he certainly was not gay, he just liked to be on the bottom. The real problem was the Count. As far as he was concerned, everything in the palazzo was his property including his son’s American girlfriend. Renzo always deferred to his father. I pretended to be angry but the old man was way more interesting than the son.”

“How old was the Count?”

“In his fifties.”

Pete winces.

“Very charming, impeccable manners, he liked to spank me until my ass turned pink then bathe me in coconut milk. He insisted our assignations have historical context, costumes, wigs, special makeup. I went from the French court to a sultan’s harem. And opium, we had that too.”

“And the actual sex?”

“I peed on him, that gave the Count great pleasure.”

“You’re cute.”

“Would my writing partner be interested in a golden shower?”

“Not particularly but your lips interest me. I still haven’t had the opportunity to fully explore them.” He bends down to kiss her but she stands up.

“Aren’t we working?”

“We just finished.”

She sits down in his ergonomic chair. “How do you think our collaboration is going so far?”

He lies down on the chaise. “We’re accumulating raw material, the incidents and details of your life.”

“Why not just start writing?”

“We haven’t gotten to the end of the story.”

She stands. “Do you still want to kiss me?” Their lips collide in the middle of the room, their tongues caress. “Just this,” she whispers in his ear, “nothing more.” They spend the next half hour necking like kids.

L
ike the rabbi promised, Marilyn’s kugel is to die for, but not the overcooked brisket or the wedge of iceberg lettuce. Cleo in Beanwear is Pete’s date. She’s in a pious mode, loving the blessing over the bread and wine, delighting the children, an adolescent boy and a nine year-old girl, with tales of lost Mayan cities. After dinner, Pete and Stew clean up, while Marilyn shows Cleo her pottery studio.

“It’s nice to see you with someone.”

“We’re working together.”

“Smart girl. Is she Jewish?”

“Lutheran.” Pete slips him an envelope.

“Thanks, the kids will be gone all day tomorrow.”

Pete knows what he’s talking about, loss of sexual spontaneity was hard getting used to when you have a kid. He and Barbara always got it on whenever Annabeth had a sleepover but even that felt predictable after awhile. “Rabbi, I’m puzzled about something. I was raised an atheist by my mother who was actually born into an Orthodox Jewish family.”

“Jewish, I could tell.”

“She renounced her faith.”

“She cannot renounce the child’s faith. You’re Jewish, why question it?”

Pete shakes his head. “I don’t believe in a supreme being, there’s too much pain and suffering. If God created Man, he walked off the job and left a mess.”

“You’re afraid, that’s understandable.”

“Not for myself, but for our children. When I was their age, I believed in the future, I believed in mankind. They live with a doomsday scenario.”

“Confronting the dark side leads to healing. Pete, I want you to come to our Torah study group Wednesday evening. It’s in your genes.”

“I play poker that night.”

“Pete, listen to your rabbi, you’re as Jewish as I am.”

•   •   •

Pete and Cleo drive into town. He’s listening to the Yankee game on the radio. She’s sitting by the window drinking in the night air.

“It always starts with a walk,” opines John in a deep resonate voice. “Walk the first man and he comes in to score.”

“Some pitchers don’t like pitching from the stretch,” says Susan with a strong upstate twang.

“Breaks their rhythm,” Pete interjects.

“Breaks their rhythm,” Susan repeats on the radio.

“Jamie is terrified Jackson might go to jail,” Cleo says.

“I’m working on that.”

“Kids never fit into my life style. I’m way too selfish.”

“We loved having Annabeth, but she was hard to manage. I should have been tough when I was easy and easy when I was tough. I blew it.”

“My dad never forgave Desirée’s career choice.”

“What about mom?”

“She died, cancer. He said I killed her. We haven’t spoken since.”

Pete pulls into the crowded Colony parking lot, kills the motor. Cleo stifles a sob. He reaches out to her. She slides closer, cries softly in his arms.

Samantha cried when she missed her family in England. Heidi used tears to get what she wanted, so did Annabeth. Barbara fell apart when he hurt her feelings. They all cried on his shoulder.

“You smell like Marilyn’s kugel,” he says licking salty tears off Cleo’s cheeks.

“Do you ever cry?”

“Never.”

Step into the Colony and pull back the curtain on a bygone era. A wooden balcony with a creaky railing encloses a room bathed in warm amber light. The dancing crowd is a rambunctious bunch of locals, ranging from old rockers to tattooed youngsters, with a smattering of yoga teachers mixed in.

The Harvey Mason Band plays on a riser fronting the grand staircase leading to the empty rooms in the rear of the building. Harvey, styling in an iridescent red sports jacket, salt and pepper shoulder length hair flying, sits behind a deep-throated Hammond B-3 organ. His long fingers caress the keyboard. Jay Cole, a skinny hipster sporting a pork pie hat tilted back and a devilish goatee, trades choruses on tenor sax with the rhythm section, Tito Vasquez on drums, locked in with Rich Falcon on Fender bass. Harvey and Falcon have played together since high school. Tonight, electric guitar wizard Jackson Hightower is sitting in. He stands back in the shadows, hiding behind a pair of shades. His nappy hair sticks out all over. His black T-shirt and ripped jeans are splattered with paint.

Pete and Cleo are at the bar chasing shots of bourbon with pints of Hurricane Kitty. She grooves to the music, her inner vixen squirming to break out. He listens closely, digging the music.

Harvey nods for Jackson to take a solo. The kid steps forward playing the theme, transforming it in unexpected ways, repeating the riff over and over until the band follows his changes, sax, bass and organ, accented by the drummer’s rim shots. Jackson solos on top.

Pete can hear the kid’s influences but his playing transforms them into something new. Jackson plays his Strat off his left hip, Hendrix style, intense.

Cleo wants to dance. Pete follows her bopping into the maelstrom. He looks simian, way too old school for her. She free forms. He can’t keep up, fades back to the bar to catch his breath.

George moves over next to him. “I rented a Desirée flick, broke the ice with Wendy, she forgave me. Appreciate the recommendation, saved my marriage.” Pete ignores him, eyes fixed on Cleo. She takes off her modest shabbat overshirt. A tank top shows off her lithe body. Her cheerleader’s vivacity mixes well with a table dancer’s sexuality. George finally registers. “Is that Desirée?”

Cleo sidles over to Jamie dancing with a horsy redhead in a western shirt. They form a threesome.

Samantha had an erratic sense of rhythm, but it mattered not when she danced naked around the apartment, something she did with frequency. Heidi had taken tap and ballet for years but her movements, though proficient, were stiff and forced. She had no grace. Barbara was a natural dancer, intuitive to Pete’s every move. Other couples envied their style. Pete feels empty where Barbara used to be.

Jackson finishes his solo, showering the crowd with a waterfall of notes. The dancers stomp and clap in appreciation. Pete whistles. Harvey segues into a slow grinding Blues. Pete moves toward Cleo, takes her in his arms. She presses close, resting her hands on his hips, her head against his chest. They dance.

Jackson bends into the microphone and sings. “The places we never went feel lonely to me now. The things we never did are no good anyhow.”

Pete and Cleo dance entwined, warm and sweaty. The organ swells and the sax wails in response.

Jackson sings. “Daddy, daddy, daddy, please come home, please come home to me.”

The music never stops as Cleo cuddles up to Pete driving home in the pickup singing the refrain. “Daddy, daddy, daddy, please come home, please come home to me.”

And the music never stops when they climb the stairs to the bedroom.

And the music never stops while they peel off their wet clothes.

And the music never stops as she kisses him with an eager mouth. “Make love to me, Petey.”

And the music never stops when his hands roam her pulsing body.

And the music never stops while she grabs his cock.

And the music never stops as they kiss feverishly.

And the music never stops when she takes him in her mouth.

And the music never stops while he licks her pussy.

And the music never stops when Pete can’t get it up.

And the music never stops as Cleo rolls on to her back laughing.