An Accidental Affair (9 page)

I sent Driver a text. Immediately he called and told me that the police had come back thrice. And late this evening, a representative from Johnny Bergs had come by the gates.

I asked, “An attorney? Or a process server?”

“Only said that they were there on behalf of Bergs.”

We left it at that. That meant a storm was brewing. If there had been an attorney or a process server, that would mean that this was now a legal matter.

He said, “Also, someone named Steve Martin has been sending messages.”

“Where did he send the messages?”

“They came to my phone. Somehow they got my personal cellular number.”

“They’re going down my friends’ list.”

“Short list.”

“You’re the only one on it.”

“I didn’t know it was that long.”

I thanked Driver, apologized for waking him at four
A.M.
, then ended the call.

I went and stood before my magical Underwood. Next to that magical machine was the script that had torn my world apart. I had been proud of that script when I had finished. Now it was my black beast. Regina Baptiste was the actress in the dark, erotic, suburban thriller. A movie that was like a Richard Yates’s novel, dialogue quick
and as rich as the words of Chandler, but, like
Body Heat
, it was also as intense as it was sensual.

Hollywood had wanted it as hot as it was Kaufman-brilliant.

Once Johnny Handsome had signed on, my wife fought to get the part of the lead actress. She demanded a hit movie. Her last film had opened at number three, trounced by a lousy motion picture with a contrived gospel theme and an over-the-top comedy. She wanted to be number one. I wanted her to be number one. I wanted that association. I was married to Hollywood too. The brilliant were needed, talent was demanded, but only the hardnosed survived. The brilliant lived in soup lines and homeless shelters and told stories of how they
coulda woulda shoulda
been rich and famous. Fame had no ceiling. No matter how well people did, they wanted bigger and they wanted better. Everyone wanted a
Titanic
. An
Avatar
. An
Inception
.

I inhaled the staleness of my eight-hundred-dollars-a-month prison.

Above me, my neighbors returned to the art of copulation, the squeaks from a much cheaper bed screaming in my ears. They had a different rhythm this time. It was like listening to a different song. Like listening to different people engaging in sex. The rhythm was different, but her moans sounded the same. When Holder and Isabel were here, it was like salsa. Two hours hour ago was like jazz. Now it was like hard-core rock. I stared at the ceiling and all I could see was Johnny Bergs pumping himself inside my wife. I went into the kitchen, made a cup of Jack Daniels, sweetened it with a little tea, bit on a cookie, bit on fruit, ate some of Vera-Anne’s cooking. Buzzed and naked, I looked around me, took in what had been an impulsive move.

When I was done, I made another cup of Jack, sans the tea. I wanted a glass big enough to dive into so I could swim to the bottom and come back to the top and tread in my misery. I kept my angst to myself. Nobody wanted tea and empathy, even when they bought the
tea. So I did like most men when something pissed them off, I attacked my innocent liver.

In a bitter, inebriated tone, I whispered, “Regina Baptiste. Damn you.”

Everywhere, in every corner, she surrounded me, a dozen beautiful wraiths dancing in pure cocaine. Then I was more worried about her than I was angered with her. I turned on my iPhone and tried to call her numbers. They all went to voice mail and her message box was full.

Before I could shut the iPhone off, it rang.

I looked at the caller ID:
UNKNOWN.

I answered in a voice filled with anger and concern; “Regina, where the fuck are you?”

“You sound like a broken man, James Thicke. I know what that feels like.”

“Who is this?”

“This is not Regina Baptiste, you backstabbing bastard.”

“Then this is somebody less important.”

“We need a face-to-face. Personal issues aside. We can be professional about this.”

“It wouldn’t be mutually beneficial.”

“How do you know?”

“Your record makes the Timberwolves look like world champions.”

“Things are about to change. Pull your head out of your ass. I need a meeting.”

“You’ve gone off the deep end.”

“Almost as deep as Johnny Bergs was inside your wife.”

“Fuck you, Bobby Holland. Fuck you.”

Bobby Holland’s foreign voice made my bowels itch. We had a history as kind as the final days of Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis. We’d crossed paths for years. In this business, we all crossed paths over and over. I knew his ugly, bitter, cynical attitude. And he knew mine.

“How did you get my number, Bobby? Meant to ask you that the last time.”

“I’m parked near a Mediterranean Villa on North Catalina Street, walled and gated.”

“You’re at my home?”

“Why don’t you open up and let an old friend come inside for a drink?”

“I’m not there. And if I were at home, I wouldn’t let you inside of my gates.”

“I need a meeting.”

“Like I told you before, I’m busy. And keep away from my property.”

“No time for the people that you have shat on as you ascended to the top.”

“I never shat on you.”

“Regina Baptiste.”

“You weren’t man enough to keep her, Holland.”

“Now you’re sliding down that same shit like it’s a ride at Raging Waters.”

“Don’t call this number again, Holland.”

“Tell her that my kids still ask about her. They’re asking what happened to her.”

“Tell them that I saved her before you destroyed her.”

“I saw the film. Excellent.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, Johnny Handsome fucked her. He did her damn well. He fucks Regina Baptiste for a few seconds and shifts the Earth on its axis. Every day opinion is changing in Johnny Bergs’s favor. After all you’ve done, the public wants her to leave you and go to him. They want her to take her money; they want her to take your home and cars, and go fuck Prince Charming and make pretty Hollywood bastard babies. Don’t you love this business, James? Don’t you? They need a new Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. A new Liz Taylor and Eddie Fisher.”

“Are you finished? I don’t want to be rude and hang up on you like so many others have.”

“So kind of you. You’ve always been a thoughtful man, always a true gentleman.”

“It’s a character fault.”

“Now the world sees her true character. Not the made-over image.”

“At least she has character, Holland.”

“Did she ever tell you about the time that we were pulled over and fined for having sex while speeding on the motorway in Norway? That was a hefty fine. She was on my lap and I was doing thirty miles over the speed limit. Have to admit that I was driving pretty erratically at that point. I couldn’t see much. Her back was in the way. The police followed us and filmed us. Luckily, in Norway I’m respected. I’m the Krzysztof Kieslowski of Norway. My work there is more popular than his
Three Colors
trilogy and I have clout. I have clout and
respect and they do what I ask because of that. I have the tape, James. I have that tape of me and Regina, and more.”

“That tape was before I was with her. That tape is four years old.”

“Today, in this climate, during this scandal, that tape would be priceless.”

“From a man struggling to find work, strapped by child support, and in debt to the IRS.”

“I settled with the IRS.”

“Which means you owe them a fortune and payment is due in installments. And, oh yeah. You’re kicking down what, about one hundred grand for private schools. How’s work?”

I held the phone, rubbed my nose, and took a thousand deep breaths.

On the other end, based on his breathing, Bobby Holland was doing the same.

He said, “You’ll call me to meet. And we will meet face-to-face. Like men.”

“Keep away from my wife.”

“She was mine first. Johnny Handsome had her last, but I had her first. You got sloppy seconds and he got sloppy thirds. This is what happens when you marry a whore.”

“Keep away from her and keep the hell away from me.”

“Enjoy the rest of your night. Tomorrow will only be worse. As will the day after.”

“Things can only get better for me, Holland. It will get worse for you if you call again.”

“Afraid not. In the meantime, take my advice. Do like all of the other losers in Hollywood do when it gets bad, run out and attach yourself to a worthless cause, donate a lot of tax-deductible money to a group that has benefits and telethons for the deformed and the diseased, take photos with the terminally ill, send money to a society
that collects donations on behalf of an illness that they will never cure, adopt a baby from a small AIDS-ridden village in Africa, do something pointless and humanitarian and get positive press to raise your diminishing stature.”

I hung up on that cockroach. Or he hung up on me. In the end it didn’t fucking matter.

The moment I hung up, the iPhone rang again and I exploded with rage.

Area code 419.

I had no idea where that was in the United States of America.

This time I didn’t answer. The Jack Daniels pulled at me and the room moved in circles.

I turned the phone off and let it fall to the floor, kicked it across the room.

Above me, as the sun rose, my neighbors started another round of sex.

I screamed, “How much fucking can you do in one fucking day? Give it a rest already.”

Now the rhythm sounded like a Russian revolutionary march.

Tonight, everybody was getting fucked. And everybody was getting fucked well.

But no one was being fucked deeper, harder, and longer than me.

Two years ago.

Regina Baptiste entered the dimly lit bar, the glow from her confidence astounding. Her build very slim in the middle, then easing back out, upper body lean, particularly the arms and shoulders. She was a hard one to not notice, especially inside of a practically empty bar room.

I think that Driver had felt the heat rise too. He was in a back corner, under a sliver of light, sipping on a ginger ale and doing a crossword puzzle. But he looked up when she entered.

With the diamond earrings and matching diamond bracelet, all that and a face by M•A•C, she looked like an A-list movie star. Even if she wasn’t, she was dressed for the part.

Then Driver went back to his crossword puzzle. He went back to being unseen.

That night had been busy.

I’d vacated the celebrities, men in trendy dark suits and women in colorful meat dresses and taped nipples, and crept away to the bar. My patient moment of solitude was now over. I checked my cellular again. Zero text messages. My attention returned to Regina Baptiste. She held onto her camera-ready smile and I held onto my liquid comfort. We were at the back end of a boring industry event that was held at a five-star hotel in the shadows of L.A. proper. The red-carpet fashion show and photo-op had long ended, most of the people already back inside
their limos and Ferraris and Lamborghinis and gone home long before last call, because Hollywood loved to sleep and sleep with each other. Long legs taking short steps, Regina Baptiste sashayed over, her skyscraper heels clicking on the tile, and took the barstool next to mine.

“James Thicke.”

“Why, Regina Baptiste, you actually remembered my name.”

Her remembering my face along with my name was an honest surprise. Writers tended to be known by their names, not by their faces. Actors, their faces and bodies were their calling cards and many people forgot their names. I was two days unshaven, the look of a man who worked in Hollywood and rejected the place that he worked. The look of an unknown man who resented all who used his words to reach fame then forgot his name in the process.

She said, “You’re always so incredibly dapper.”

“Thanks. And likewise.”

The bartender came and Regina Baptiste ordered a Johnny Walker Blue, no ice.

A moment later she sipped and smiled. “You always duck out of the industry functions.”

“My tolerance for narcissism is low these days.”

“It’s not that bad once you get used to it.”

“I’d rather go planking in the center lane on the 405.”

“Mind if I…? Drinking alone is a sign of alcoholism. Two drinking is a party.”

“Sure. You’ve already parked your pretty dress on the barstool. Go right ahead.”

In her intoxicating timbre she asked, “Waiting on someone?”