An Accidental Affair (15 page)

“He’s with his family of felons.”

“Should I let Bergs come up and apologize? I mean, he’s Johnny Bergs.”

Regina Baptiste looked distressed and shook her head over and over.

She said, “He’s not one of my favorite people. I don’t want to be in the same room.”

I told my manager no, then instructed him to move the Bergs’s party away from everyone else, to the VIP section in the red sector, and to send a bottle of Patrón to Johnny. He was in a party the size of a classroom, and when they started drinking, it would never end, so they’d buy more overpriced bottles, the tab would be sky-high, and the club would make up to ten thousand dollars off him and his followers within the next hour. So far as the fight, I instructed my manager to take the names of witnesses as well. Everyone on the floor who didn’t leave, until last call, would get drinks at Happy Hour prices. And I told him to give a voucher good for two free admissions, a pass that would get them by the velvet rope. People loved to feel special.

I said, “In ten minutes, they will be back to dancing and grabbing every ass in sight.”

“I’ll have the boys in the box keep cameras on them.”

“And at the end of the night, we’ll put them in taxis and send them all home. That generosity plays well during arbitration. It will be impossible to sue the club after that.”

“Paparazzi followed Bergs and his entourage here.”

“If they followed Bergs, then they are hired by Bergs’s publicity team to follow him.”

“No doubt.”

After he left, I again apologized to Regina for the drama that had taken place.

I said, “So you’re not a Johnny Bergs fan.”

When I asked, Regina Baptiste looked different. Arms folded. Her lips pursed.

“James Thicke, you actually have talent. People respect both you and your work. The business respects you. Here they respect you. You’re so lucky. You have it made.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Forget it. Let’s have a good time. Didn’t mean to spoil the night.”

“Something happen between you and Bergs? I can throw him out too.”

Her eyes watered. “Last month, I was at an industry party and he came over to me.”

“Johnny Bergs.”

“I tried to talk to him about work. He was drunk, so his lips were real loose. His brothers were with him. So was his dad. That’s a lowbrow family. Johnny touched me on my ass and told me that I was nothing more than eye candy. Something to fuck and he wanted to know when he would get a shot. I told him he had to be joking. It caught me off guard. I gave him a chance to take it all back. He laughed again and repeated that I was just eye candy.”

“He did that in front of his entourage.”

“He’s bold. He said that whenever I was cast, directors and actors and everyone on the set were taking bets on who would get to hit this. He said that I was cast for the same reason all of the other pretty women on any project were cast, for sex. That was the only reason.
He was drunk and in my face, laughing and smiling. He said it like it was no big deal. I walked away.”

“I’ll have him put out.”

“Don’t. Just let it be. You’ll have to work with him one day too. Keep your relationship distant, yet amicable. Most of the people in this business don’t like each other anyway.”

“It’s my club.”

“People say that his family is worse than a gang. Say they beat and kill people. Did you hear about his accountant? Some of Bergs’s money was missing and that family went to his accountant’s office and beat up him and his staff. Then the accountant vanished.”

“That’s supposed to scare me? As far as I’m concerned, it’s just another urban legend.”

“James, you’re a writer. Johnny Handsome is trained at karate and all kinds of stuff.”

“So that makes me less of a man?”

“That’s not what I mean. I’m just saying, don’t cross Johnny Handsome on my behalf. You seem smart. Very smart. Business-minded. No need to burn a bridge on my behalf.”

I reached up and moved her hair from her cheeks. She had the pretty-girl blues.

She said, “I’m attracted to you. I wanted to get to know you because I respect your work, but I love your mind. I love the part of you that no one loves when it comes to me.”

“Not many people buy posters of brains. Tits and ass? Yes. Brains? Not so much.”

“The night at the industry party, before I came to the bar, I watched you. I had watched you all evening. I saw you move by everyone, so unaffected by his or her celebrity and position in the business. Everybody was flocking to Hazel Tamana Bijou, and you just waved at her and kept going. Hazel was so Hollywood that it was ridiculous, making sure everyone saw her, going from person to person, that
invisible timer going on in her head, spending five minutes here, five minutes there, brownnosing to the point it made me want to puke. But you, the way people came over to you, the way they couldn’t wait to touch you and pat you on the back, so much respect. I thought, that’s how I want to be. Like him. It aroused me. I imagined you and me being together like this. I didn’t think it would happen. Then I heard that you were at the bar. I had hoped you were alone. And if you weren’t alone, I was going to run her away.”

Her cellular rang and a call from her beau Bobby Holland ended our conversation.

He would be back in four days and this deciduous love affair would come to an end.

She ended the call, opened her purse, hand shaking, and put white powder on her finger, then rubbed it on her gums before she took a quick and dirty swallow of her whiskey and Coke.

I asked her, “Do you love you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Doing drugs means you hate yourself.”

“You’re serving Patrón by the gallon and calling me out? I can stop at any time. This is nothing compared to what goes on in this club, and you know that. Women meet in the ladies’ room to powder their noses and they use a lot more Peruvian marching powder than I do. They are addicted to this shit. Not me. It’s recreational. No different than taking a drink. When I’m stressed, when I’m upset, a little helps to smooth things over and give me the clarity I need.”

“How long have you been doing blow?”

“Okay, I won’t do it anymore while I’m with you. I apologize. Seeing Johnny Handsome here, remembering what he did, how he treated me like shit, that stressed me out.”

“Johnny Handsome.”

“Since that thing in
People
, that’s what all the women call him. Johnny Handsome.”

Within a week, we were living up under each other like we were husband and wife.

We left my estate jogging, blended with the pre-dawn crowd, and tackled the hills of Griffith Park. We ran until we were sixteen hundred feet above sea level, the observatory down below us. There were numerous trails that gave a beautiful view of Downtown, West Hollywood, Glendale, Century City, Torrance, Pasadena, Silver Lake, and for many, the main attractions were the fresh air and the Hollywood sign. Down below at the observatory was chaos, so many busloads of tourists. We were on a dirt trail that was over four miles long.

I said, “Tell me something about you, Regina, anything, something trivial.”

She was drenched in sweat, no makeup, hair underneath a bandana, wearing a pair of my too-large sweats and tee. The T-shirt had a picture of a rooster and over its head
I HAVE A BIG COCK
in bright yellow letters. No one recognized her. Either that or no one up here cared.

She panted. “You first. Give me an example.”

“I like the toilet paper torn along the perforated edges.”

She laughed. “That’s crazy, James. But cool. Let’s pick up the pace.”

I ran in front of her, and when she caught up, our run changed to a vigorous climb. We caught our breath and I continued talking, “I
hate to see a toilet seat up. You flush with the seat up and germs fly six feet. Gets all over the counter and toothbrushes. Grosses me out.”

She said, “I thought you were about to get deep and ask me the type of questions that I would cringe at and have to answer by either saying no comment or pleading the fifth.”

“I said trivial. Now you.”

“I detest hairy balls.”

I laughed. “I don’t like single-malt Scotch.”

“I don’t like Anthropologie.”

“Hmmm. I stole a battery from a neighbor’s car one night.”

“A battery? I can top that, James. When I was a teenager in Montana I stole a car.”

“Wow. Regina Baptiste. Car thief.”

“I was Regina Baptist then. There was already a Regina Baptist registered, and since every actor gets his own name, and mine was taken, SAG made me change my name.”

“You’re willing to do whatever you have to do to be successful.”

“I am. Failure is not an option. Success by any means necessary.”

When we made it to the top again, we paused and stood in the crowd, looked out at the city. She held my hand. She held my hand and I felt something that I wanted to fight.

My cellular rang. It was the club calling. I answered.

“You hear the word, Thicke?”

“I’ve been occupied, Flaco. What has happened now?”

“The guys that got into the fight with the Bergs, they were all found dead. All were shot.”

“The club involved?”

“Not at all. We have them on camera leaving the club after the melee.”

“Johnny Bergs and his crew were okay? Anything else happen after we left?”

“Nothing. They ran up a thirty-thousand-dollar tab. He put it on his Centurion Card.”

“Were the brothers there all night?”

“They were there, but their old man wasn’t. He’s the most evil of the bunch.”

As far as I was concerned, whatever happened had occurred away from Mapona.

From the perspective of being liable, that was done.

Then Regina’s cellular rang. It was her assistant. Her assistant was at Bobby Holland’s home, walking and feeding the dogs, sending out e-mails, rescheduling appointments.

We finished our calls and stood in silence looking out over the cities below.

I asked, “How do you feel?”

Regina whispered, “No dogs. No kids. This has been the perfect week. Perfect. It’s nice to be away for a while. Nice to feel safe. Nice not to be stressed the fuck out about everything.”

The eighth night we once again moaned and sweated on my bed. Its covers had been disheveled by lust; her vibrator and slices of mangos and honey were on my nightstand. Regina’s cellular rang as she was about to mount me, her breathing labored and her body over mine, ready to ease down and take control; she ran her hands across her hair, tisked and shook her head, hesitated, and fell away from me. She looked nervous, as if her secret had been revealed. She screamed a short scream and bounced her leg before she took the call.

“Hey, baby. I was on the StairMaster. How’s Oslo? What happened now?”

A fire of jealousy erupted to life inside me. A fire I had to extinguish as soon as it started.

Everybody wanted to meet someone new. Everybody wanted to
but couldn’t. Starting over was hard, so they kept what they had and pretended. Those were my random thoughts.

“Miss you too. Love you too. I know. I overreacted. My publicist overreacted. If you say it’s a lie, then it’s a lie. I’ll be at the airport. Okay, my love. Can’t wait to see you either.”

She finished the call and lay next to me, biting her lip, fingers rubbing her temples.

That call changed her mood, jarred her from this reality that we had created.

I asked, “You okay?”

“Bobby Holland will definitely be back from Oslo tomorrow.”

I pulled her to me, but she pulled away, stood up and went inside the bathroom.

She closed the door. The shower came on.

I took that to mean that we were done being lovers and would go back to being strangers.

I picked up my cellular. I was about to send my first choice a text message.

If I wanted to I could fill my nights with women who were the modern day equivalents of Lana Turner, Dorothy Dandridge, Rita Moreno, Marilyn Monroe, Nichelle Nichols, Pam Grier, Ava Gardner, Rita Hayworth, Doris Duke, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Lena Horne, Barbara Hutton, Eartha Kitt, Jayne Mansfield, Princess Grace Kelly, Denise Nicholas, and Eva Perón.

I’d been with many. They’d left my home pleased and rushing to get on their cellular phones so they could have conversations with their girlfriends and talk about my Rubirosas.

I dropped the phone and stared at the intricate details of the ceiling.

A little after four in the morning I woke up in my master bedroom suite with Regina Baptiste sitting up next to me. Her cellular was in
her hand, its light illuminating her face as she sent someone a text message. She closed it and put it down, sighed, then looked back at me. I was on my side, eyes barely opened. There was no light on in the room, only a full moon outside.

She whispered, “He boarded his flight. I have to go. I packed everything while you were sleeping. My suitcase is by the bedroom door. Nothing is left but the basket of clean clothes.”

“You were leaving without saying good-bye.”

“You have the alarm set. It’s impossible for me to leave with it wailing.”

I told her the code. She wasn’t a prisoner and I wasn’t forcing her to stay.

She said, “Even if I act odd with you when I see you in public, these days with you, I had a good time. Eight days went by so fast. Feels like I just got here. Every day was a great day. Just had to say. When I see you again, we can give no signs that we know each other.”

“You did a line, didn’t you?”

“I’m stressed. Yeah, I did a line. Had a little of your whiskey too.”

“Well, let me call Driver. I can drive your car and drop you off and he can follow in my car. You don’t need to drive, not on drugs. Get a DUI and your career will take a nosedive.”

“The moment that Bobby’s plane lands, everything is going to change. It’s too late, James. What’s done is done. I think that my career has already taken a nosedive. I feel it.”

She hand combed her hair, picked up her laundry basket. But she put her laundry down and wiped tears from her eyes. Regina Baptiste, with no makeup on her face, with no rented dress covering her body, without the high heels; she looked so young and innocent.