The Placebo Effect (18 page)

Decker had also prepped Josh for his four biggest episodes in
The Extraordinaries
' first season that launched both him and the show into the stratosphere—TV talk-wise.

“Decker?”

“Yeah.”

“How are you, I haven't heard from you…”

“…in quite a while. Look, I need a favour.”

“Sure, you need a place to stay in New York?”

“Maybe, but that's not the favour.”

“Okay, so what can I do ya?”

Decker resisted saying “That LA talk doesn't suit a good Canadian boy” but chose to say, “Invite me over—I haven't had lunch yet.”

“Sure. You know where I live?”

“Oh, yeah, a little hard to forget your address.”

One Fifth Avenue was as fancy as its address suggested. Josh lived in a corner apartment with a view of Washington Square. Not the one that Henry James wrote about, since it was now filled with NYU students and tourists and Haitians and Zimbabwean refugees hawking designer goods with misspelled names such as Goochie and Pravda.

“You look good,” Josh said.

“Thanks. And you look obscenely young for someone your age.”

“Thanks back at you for that.”

“How goes the show?”

“I'm doing my best not to let it become just work.”

“A good idea.” In fact a very good idea, because when acting becomes just work—an art descending into a repetitive craft—then there really is no point in doing it at all.

“Coffee, beer, wine?”

“A beer would be good.”

“Lager, ale, dark, light—”

“Just a fuckin' beer, Josh. Jeez, we may have to pull you out of this town before you become one of them.”

“Truth? I like being one of them. Or at least being taken for one of them.”

Decker understood this idea in his bones, but it was something you only admitted to a fellow Canadian living south of the forty-ninth.

“So you wanted a favour, Decker?”

Decker hesitated. How well did he really know Josh Near? He knew him as an actor, as a student—as a fellow admirer of female backs. “Yeah,” Decker said, accepting the proffered bottle of French beer. He took a sip. It tasted of something that should not be put into beer. “I need you to play a role for me.”

Josh's thin blond eyebrows rose to form a perfect inverted V. “You have a film to direct, Decker? I thought that—”

“No. It's not a film. It's a slice of life.”

“Oh? And who do I have to play?”

“Yourself. Josh Near, TV star.”

“I think I can handle that. When's showtime?”

“Tomorrow at Bob's Big Ol' BBQ on Twenty-third, if you can arrange it.”

“Consider it done.”

Less than an hour after Decker left the posh apartment with a commitment from the young actor, Josh found himself staring out at Washington Square Park and thinking about the obligations of friendship—and the nature of betrayal. He liked Decker. In some very real ways he owed Decker for a lot of his success. Decker had supplied advice and prep time as Josh negotiated the complex waters leading up to his big chance at NBC. But there was a problem. A cocaine problem. A pending charge in Toronto that despite huge sums of money he'd already paid his attorney just wouldn't go away. Josh tapped out a smallish mound of coke on the mirrorlike black slate countertop then cut it into lines with an Amex Platinum Card and thought about Decker's odd request to call a lawyer in Patchin Place then interview him in a restaurant with a script that Decker would provide. It all sounded a little—no a lot—fishy.

He cut then snorted a thick line. When his head cleared he
looked out the floor-to-ceiling window. The view of Washington Square wasn't great, but it was New York—and the chicks dug it. Dug him! Or was it just his access to so much coke? He didn't bother working his way through that. He had more important matters to deal with.

He picked up the phone and punched 4 on the speed dialer. It annoyed him that his lawyer's number in Toronto had reached number 4 on the list. The phone was answered on the first ring and a voice that he had become all too familiar with said, “To what do I owe this surprise phone call?”

Josh eyed the second line of cocaine on the kitchen counter. “Hold on a sec.” He put the phone down and with a dexterity born of much practice snorted the line. It flashed bright colours in his head—then the clarity—and the bravery returned. “Sorry.”

“Sure, Josh.”

Josh told his lawyer about Decker's strange request.

“Let me run this past a few people up here. Maybe someone in law enforcement will salute the flag.”

Josh hated it when lawyers tried to be cool. “Could this help my situation?”

“Hard to say. So tell me everything you know about Decker Roberts.” Josh realized this was the last chance he'd have to back out. To not betray his friend and mentor. He licked a finger and ran it along the counter with the coke remains, then rubbed them into his gums—and told his lawyer everything he knew about Decker Roberts.

DECKER DROPPED INTO THE STAPLES ON THIRD AVENUE AND
bought a Cambridge writing tablet and a new pen. Hard things he liked to work out longhand. Then he hopped the bus up Third Avenue and walked over to the park that faced the East River. The one where Woody Allen talked the night away with Diane Keaton in
Manhattan
—the one to which Decker had taken Seth when his wife's anguish had been too great for either of them to bear. The one where he'd lied to Seth—telling him that everything was going to be okay. That his mother was going to be just fine. The one where he first sensed that although he couldn't tell when Seth was being dishonest, the boy could spot every untruth his father ever told him.

The cold in New York could be as cold as anywhere else, but the day was clear and the sun warmed things enough for Decker to sit outside. The Silvercup Bakery—now studio—was across the river. The great bridge, which once crossed, according to F. Scott Fitzgerald, anything could happen “even Gatsby could happen,” was to his left—and the empty page on his lap. He allowed himself to envision Josh, then he put words in his mouth.

Garreth knew that he had overstepped his authority when he went to Decker's studio, but something about that guy… So when the word came down the line that Josh Near was “shopping” Decker from New York City, Garreth went directly to the Crown Attorney's office and made a pitch to trade Josh's coke charge for the whereabouts of Decker Roberts, who he said was
a suspect in an arson or perhaps a string of arsons, one of which had caused the death of an elderly night watchman.

It took a bit of doing, but by eight o'clock the deal was done, and by nine o'clock Josh had his assurance that his coke charge would be dropped if he gave up Decker Roberts—and Garreth thought of his father's rage at a young boy of that same name: Decker Roberts.

Yslan hit the return key on her iPhone and the name Josh Near came up, followed by his basic data. She scanned it quickly and assumed that he was one of Decker's students from Toronto. Decker's movements in New York had at times made sense—at others were indecipherable. She understood him visiting the two places where he had lived with his wife and son, but what was he doing in Patchin Place and why the meeting with Josh Near? But more important was Josh's phone call to his lawyer in Toronto that they had intercepted. What was that about?

She hit her speed dialer. Her boss, Harrison, came on the phone, “Yeah.”

“I think we've got trouble here in good ol' River City.”

“Do you have enough men to look after it?”

“If you keep the local cops out of it.”

“I'll try. They're not all that fond of us up there. How soon do you think this is going down?”

“I don't know—I'll get back to you.”

“YOU'RE NOT GOING TO TELL ME WHAT THIS IS ABOUT, ARE
you, Decker?”

“It's about truth…”

“…justice, and the American way—I saw that one too.”

Decker looked out the window of Josh's apartment. In Washington Square Park two inline skaters were making magic with their movements.
Reaching into the jet stream
, Decker thought,
and they don't even know it.
He had a strong impulse to retreat to the Museum of Modern Art, surrounding himself with those who had put their heads up in the jet stream—voyaged—and come back to us with their visions of another world: de Kooning, Klee, Jackson Pollock, especially Mark Rothko, whose chapel in Houston was Decker's North American Chartres.

“So what is it you want me to do?” Josh asked.

“A little bit of acting, playacting if you wish.”

“With a lawyer?”

What was that strange edge to the word “lawyer”? For the umpteenth time Decker asked himself if he trusted this young man. But what choice did he have? Charendoff had seen him twice when he had sent him to do his dirty work up in Stanstead, so he needed someone like Josh Near to get access to him. Finally he responded, “Yeah, with a lawyer—think of it as playing a scene and the lawyer's your acting partner.”

“What's my action, Decker? If I had the right to write the end of the scene, what would the lawyer do?”

“I taught you that.”

“And a bunch of other stuff, but answer my question, Teach.”

That edge again. “Are you all right, Josh?”

“I'm fine, Decker.”

Decker couldn't resist. He flicked his eyes shut. Squiggled lines—then flattening into trapezoids. At least partially a truth. But then again what answer to the question “Are you all right?” doesn't have some ‘squiggle' to it?

“In fact, I'm getting better and better,” Josh added apropos of nothing in particular.

Perfect rectangles—a truth.

“Don't do that!” Josh snapped.

“What?”

“That eye-closing thing.”

Decker didn't realize it was so obvious, but then again Josh was a superb actor—and a great actor sees and hears like the narrator in a major Russian novel. “Sorry.”

“Do I bore you, Decker?”

Decker was about to say “Hardly” but pulled out his notebook and turned it to face Josh. “Look. Just go through it with me like we'd go through a film scene or an audition. Okay?”

“We going to chart?”

“I don't think it's necessary—this is all done in one take.”

“Drone notes?”

“They'll be obvious when you hit them.”

Josh shrugged.

“So look, I've written out the lines I need you to say in capitals. The lawyer's probable answers are underlined.” He looked up and Josh was all concentration—good. The guy had incredible focus when he wanted to use it. “So you begin with a greeting of some sort—any way you like—to which he then responds something like: ‘I represent lots of performers.'”

“Actors,” Josh said sharply. “I'm an actor not a performer. Circus guys are performers.”

“Right. Actors. So he says he represents lots of actors. And you respond to that with: ‘I need someone who can help me with
things on both sides of the border—I'm a Canadian. You knew that, right?' To which he answers, ‘Sure, absolutely.' Although I'm sure he didn't have a clue about that. But you continue: ‘So I have business dealings on both sides of the border. And in Quebec as well. Can you handle things in Quebec? It's Napoleonic Code law there.' He probably hadn't heard of Napoleonic code law since law school—and even then only in passing—but I'm sure he'll say something like: ‘We have loads of resources in the firm.' Then he'll probably mention Louisiana since it has Napoleonic Code law.”

“How do you know shit like that, Decker?”

“I just do. Then I need you to ask him: ‘Have you ever been to Quebec?' I have no idea what his answer will be to that, but whatever it is, positive or negative, you continue: ‘I like the eastern townships south of Montreal a lot. I'm thinking of setting up a business near the border.' If he asks you what kind of business, hedge as if you're hiding a great prospect and say: ‘Not sure but I think there are real opportunities up there.' Then you be sure to say this exactly: ‘You or your firm ever done any business up there?' Let him answer that. Then ask: ‘Ever been up there yourself?' Let him answer that too then say: ‘I met the Irwin family there a while back. Do you know them by chance?' Let him answer that, then cut him short, claim you have a meeting and that you'll get back to him. Once you get the answer I want you to cut off all conversation.”

“Who are the Irwins, Decker?”

For a moment Decker really wanted to share his knowledge of the potential murder, then he stopped himself. “Just a name drawn from a hat.”

“You're a lousy liar, Decker.”

Decker was really tired of hearing that.

“Don't try acting, Decker, it's beyond your reach.”

Decker didn't reply, glad to have moved past the “who are the Irwins” question.

It took Josh only one phone call. “Okay, my people have set the meeting for two tomorrow afternoon at that restaurant.”

“Did they reserve you a table?”

“Of course.”

“Get them to tell you which one.”

“Sure.”

“Good.” Decker was about to leave when he said, “Bring your cell phone. I'll call you before you enter the restaurant, then leave your phone on, on the table and connected to me.”

Bob's Big Ol' BBQ was on Twenty-second around the corner from the Chelsea Hotel where Leonard Cohen, another fine Canadian boy, made it with Janis Joplin and then wrote a song about it. A sort of kiss and sing thing. The restaurant was a New York City chic diner—pulled pork on a white bun for $17.95. Decker arrived a few minutes early and walked carefully past Charendoff as the man perused the menu. An expensive leather briefcase was at the lawyer's side. As Decker had assumed, Charendoff arrived first and took the side of the booth facing the door—the power position. Decker had reserved the booth behind them and sat back to back.