An Accidental Affair (33 page)

The shouting ended and once again a hostile silence settled between us.

Holland looked at his gun. Hands trembling, he picked it up and moved it to the side.

He asked, “She knows that you betrayed her confidence with one phone call?”

I shook my head. “She still blames you. And I fucking like it that way.”

He said, “You were the bad guy in all of this, Thicke.”

“In your story, maybe. Not in mine.”

“You made the first domino fall, Thicke.”

“I’ll never be the bad guy in my own life.”

“That’s why they have the word
denial
in the dictionary. Look it up. Your picture is right there, you self-centered, backstabbing, narcissistic, piece of shit prick.”

“You won’t shoot me, Holland.”

“Why so sure?”

“Beige carpet. No plastic put down. Besides, you have no idea who knows I’m here.”

“You said that no one knew.”

“I said that I didn’t tell my wife.”

“Who knows you’re here?”

“I have friends with me. They’re parked in a gray car, two houses behind mine.”

“The car that pulled up behind you.”

“They’re with me.”

“Who are they?”

“Take your gun. Go see. They just might have guns too.”

I sat in silence, longing for the life that I had created in Downey.

I said, “May I leave your wonderful museum now?”

“No. School is still in. Still much to learn.”

“Whatever you say, Holland. Whatever you say.”

“I’m surprised that you haven’t thrown a fit and made threats, Thicke.”

“If I jumped and screamed, kicked walls and ripped off my shirt, threw chairs through windows, with the cards that you’re holding, you’d only demand more scripts, money, and cars.”

“You know me so well.”

I rubbed my eyes and dragged my hands down my cheeks. My face was still numb from his blows. The taste of my own blood remained strong inside my mouth.

“I outmaneuvered you.”

“Knowing what I know now, I never would’ve gone after Johnny Bergs. I would’ve come after you, Holland. I would’ve driven up here to pay you a visit on that rainy night.”

“You’re feeling stupid, aren’t you, Thicke?”

“Being stupid hurts a man like me. I’m disappointed in the way I acted.”

“Johnny Bergs got the bad end of the deal.”

“He sure did. Outside of getting to fuck my wife, he sure did.”

Bobby Holland lit a Cuban cigar, puffed, leaned back in his chair.

I let a second pass before I said, “Question?”

“Go ahead, Thicke?”

“Why now? You’ve had that tape of her since before she left you.”

“I kicked her out.”

“I stand corrected.”

“I packed her belongings and kicked her out.”

“Why now?”

He hesitated, then shifted, uncomfortable. He pulled his lips in then said, “Maybe I just wanted her to fall from a great height. Thanks for getting her up there, James.”

“What changed? Something’s changed. Why are you coming after us now?”

“She’s high enough to fall and make the earth shake, tsunamis rise, and the gravitational spin of the world to become permanently altered. It’s up to you if she actually falls that far.”

“This is more personal than business.”

“Oh, when the paparazzi showed her leaving your property like she was Princess Diana leaving Kensington, to have it be the conversation in every meeting or interview that I went into, to have it as the primary conversation on my own set, to have to contact my publicist and issue press releases, to have it overshadow me and my accomplishments, especially when she made her snarky sexual comments on
Twitter, when I dealt with her betrayal and your ego, that was personal. This, the cars, the script, the payout, James, all of that is simply good business.”

I nodded.

He said, “You called the paparazzi. I should make you give me four cars.”

Weighed down by emotions, I looked out of his window. Stared at his swimming pool.

He said, “And since you’re involved, I’ll show you one more thing.”

He turned the screen toward me again. It was a video of me attacking Johnny Bergs. It was crisp and clear, as if it were a shoot on a set. I saw me storming past the camera with a tire iron in my hand, rushing up to the Porsche and smashing Bergs’s car window. Then, enraged, I pulled him out and beat him. As rain fell, I pounded the man into the pavement.

Bobby Holland said, “Money can buy you access to anything. Now I have Bergs. This is what he would hate for the world to see. He’ll work for me again. With a smile and a pay cut.”

On the video, Johnny Handsome fled as I jumped back inside my car and sped away.

I looked at Bobby Holland, once again surprised.

He said, “Don’t sit there like this is a silent movie with no subtitles. Speak up.”

“Was thinking.”

“Share your thoughts.”

I said, “
Chinatown
. This feels like
Chinatown
.”

He nodded. “Hollywood is
Chinatown
. The bad guys do win. The rich always win.”

Another moment went by with me in a trance, staring out at his pool.

“You still with me, Thicke? No jokes. Your voice is gone now. No arrogance.”

I said, “You win. I love her. I want to protect her. Always have.”

“Was she worth it?”

“Doesn’t matter the cost. She’s priceless.”

“I’m enjoying the outcome. I get to tear your playhouse down.”

He puffed on his Cuban cigar, the scent of his victory.

I smiled an affable smile and said, “Mind if I have one to go?”

“Sure. As a matter of fact, I’ll give you two.”

“So kind of you. You are truly, truly a thoughtful and generous man.”

“One for Regina. Bill gave a cigar to Monica. It will remind Regina of old times.”

“I’m sure.”

“I look forward to working with her again.”

“No doubt.”

“Despite this, despite the past, she was always a joy to work with.”

“The cigar and I’ll be on my way.”

“The cars will be here in forty-eight.”

I nodded. “If not sooner.”

He stood and we shook hands.

Then he sat back down and spun around in his luxurious red chair to open his humidor and remove cigars from his private stash. He was smiling the smile of a well-earned payday.

I growled, “
Yngvar Vimar Bakken
.”

Those three words halted him. When he snapped back around I was no longer on the opposite side of his desk, but I was on his side, standing over him, a deadly grimace on my face, his Razzie raised high in my hand. He moved, jerked to grab for his gun. I brought the statuette down hard, struck the side of his head, parted his beautiful blond hair, hair that sang of virility, and it changed to a beautiful
shade of red, the hue of the lipstick on a two-dollar whore. Shock and pain contorted his once overconfident face. He tumbled out of his chair, collapsed onto the carpet without so much as a sigh. Bobby Holland was down for the count.

Driver was right. It was more effective to use a solid object than a fist.

I stepped over Bobby Holland and moved his gun. I picked it up and tossed it across the room. It thudded when it hit the carpet. Then I thought twice, imagined him somehow crawling to that gun and shooting me. I stepped over Holland again and retrieved the gun. I dropped it inside the Tumi bag. A second later I stepped over him again and opened his desk drawer. Found a stash of cocaine. With the stash were specialized spoons and other tooters, mirrors and CD cases, things he used to make bumps or lines. And there were hundreds of straws. He had more straws than Mrs. Patrice Evans had Post-its. Sharing straws was like sharing needles. There was something else there. Oral syringes. He was a plugger, at least part time. A pegger and a plugger. He used the syringes to inject cocaine into his anus. Some men injected it anally and some women did the same and vaginally as well. Women always had more stores at the mall and more options. Not many people talked about it. Social taboos. But show business was a country of its own. This was Bobby Holland’s private life. This was his office stash. This was what he kept handy.

A man like Bobby Holland would always have a supply close at hand.

Inside another drawer were bills and lawsuits, some filed by him against various companies, most from companies that were suing him. The one on top was from his ex-wife. The one under that was the bill for the other kid. The DNA test had come back and not in his favor. He was in debt on a kid from over a decade ago. Just like the news online had said, close to a million owed. The next from the IRS was demanding just as much within the next thirty days. He owed everyone from his attorneys to his gardeners.

Inside another drawer was a roll of duct tape on top of a stack of photos, all of Regina Baptiste. Duct tape and photos of my wife. Made no sense. Regina was locked away in a drawer and held down by a half-used roll of gray duct tape. But there it was. It looked like a threat. A promise to keep her enslaved. As Bobby lay on the floor, bleeding and moaning, I kicked his gut twice. He had slapped me twice. I issued equal punishment. I was a fair man at heart. He groaned and wheezed and murmured obscenities that offended my sensibilities. I had on good shoes. My shoes were of greater value than his. He didn’t appreciate their soles.

I said, “Just wanted to make sure you were still alive.”

I used his duct tape to bind him. Hands behind his back. I taped his ankles together. Did the same for his knees. Enraged, I picked up one of his magazines and ripped out an elegant photo of Regina Baptiste. I balled it up and shoved it inside his bloody mouth, then used more duct tape to keep it there. He made disgusted faces like he didn’t appreciate the taste of my wife anymore.

I kicked him again, that time out of spite. My shoes wanted to, so I let them.

Bobby Holland at my feet, I looked up at the stunning images of Regina Baptiste.

Then I gazed out at the beautiful moonlight reflecting in his swimming pool.

Holland slithered across the concrete. Face bloodied, he did his best to do the impersonation of a two-hundred-pound snake and struggled to escape. He was trapped. I was trapped too.

“Slapping me was no good. You should’ve shot me in the face, Bobby Holland.”

He squirmed and scraped his flesh on the concrete, went nowhere fast.

“But there was no profit in shooting me, right? No cars. No cash. Slapping just added to the humiliation. I bet that made you feel superior. Bet that made you feel real superior.”

Cool breeze on my skin, air whistling through palm trees, the scent of the desert and chlorine filling my heated lungs, lungs that burned after dragging Holland from his office to the backyard, I stood at the edge of his swimming pool, head aching, and fists firm on my hips; head back, looking up at the moon. It felt like I was in the deep dark hell of a life that belonged to somebody else. There was only one direction that we could go from here. I frowned down at him, angry at my life. Regina Baptiste was inside his mouth and he still wasn’t satisfied. I put my loafer on the side of his neck, adjusted my weight, and made him stop snaking around in vain.

I asked, “How’s that last laugh working out for you, Holland?”

He fought for a moment; then his panicked expression looked up into my angered eyes. His eyes were so wide they looked like two
moons reflecting the moon above. His fear was magnificent. No actor had ever portrayed the level of fear that Bobby Holland owned. Now he realized how lucky Johnny Handsome had been. I gathered a mouth of spit and was tempted to shower his face, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to be gross. Or cliché. I spat it away into his pool.

I took an iPhone out of my pocket. It was the one that I had obtained from Steve Martin, aka Alice Ayres. She had had a film that was worth millions, a film that could shake Hollywood, and all she asked me to do was take care of the parking ticket on her car. I paid her for her iPhone and she was cool with that. There were decent people out there. Decent people were ignored while the scoundrels were praised. I held the iPhone in front of Bobby Holland’s eyes and played the video. At first he was confused. Me, James Thicke, holding a video of him. When he realized what it was, surprise took root. Extreme surprise. Bobby Holland, on set, verbally abusing Baptiste, giving cocaine to Baptiste and Bergs. Bobby Holland. Functional cocaine addict. Baptiste might have been screwed in more ways than one, but Holland knew that his time had come. I set the iPhone on record and pointed it at his face. I became the director.

I said, “We’re beyond the Rubicon. Rubicon is the river that, once crossed, guarantees war. Not all wars are loud. Some are as quiet as this one. It’s time for us to move onto the battlefield.”

Face bloodied, Holland kicked his legs in vain. The duct tape that had his hands bound behind his back was better than shackles. Duct tape was around his ankles and knees too.

“Exploit me. I’m a writer and no one will care. It’s about the story. No one remembers the writer. We’re simply the unnamed and unnoticed angels who work for the gods. You can put Donald Duck across the front as the screenwriter; no one will care but the lawyers at Disney.”

His eyes widened with an emotion that was miles beyond the exit to fear. Stripped down, I was an animal. And so was Holland. Right now, he was a zebra watching a lion close in. His muscles flexed and
strained against his binds. He did that until he exhausted himself. His heartbeat was accelerated. And underneath his turtleneck, the hairs on his body were on end.

“No one applauds screenwriters. Well, no one but other screenwriters. Everybody else thinks that they can just slap us around. You picked the wrong screenwriter to slap around.”

I pulled over a chair and set the iPhone up for a wider shot.

“This is for your family, Holland. After it’s been edited. I’ll show them who you were.”

I emptied my pockets, put my car keys and wallet and other phones inside the Tumi bag, tossed the messenger bag to the side. I took off my shoes. Bobby Holland continued freaking out. His body was in fight or flight, but he wasn’t able to satisfy either primal urge. He exerted intense muscular effort. I stuck my toes into the water. The water was cold.