Breach of Promise (10 page)

He was staying at a cheap motel not far from me. He didn’t have much money (never had, since prison, he explained) and didn’t have a job. He’d come down here as an act of faith, “faith in the Wheel.”

So I told him he could stay a while at my apartment. My thinking was this. If he was my father (and I was going to check it out further), then I guess I owed it to myself to find out about him. I didn’t feel like I owed
him
anything. He was the one who’d run out on me.
But if I could understand him a little, maybe I could understand some things about myself. Like the sudden rages. Or the urge to drink.
And there was another reason, too. He was Maddie’s grandfather, and that gave me an added arrow in my quiver. Paula had Erica on her side. This was a grandparent for my side. Even though he appeared to be stuck in the sixties and had a criminal record to boot, he’d done his time. Maybe I was hoping a court would eventually take that into account, though I wasn’t naive enough to consider this a great bargaining chip. I was just grasping for anything that might help me.
Since I’d gotten into acting, I was always observing people, trying to pick up on what they were about. I did the same with Ron— I wasn’t going to be calling him “Dad,” that was too strange—as we moved his stuff from the Wagon Wheel, with its free HBO, to my apartment, with its free macaroni and cheese.
Ron seemed genuinely grateful. And mellow, that old Southern California word for all-around peaceful and laid-back. Whatever his beliefs about religion, he appeared to have found some sort of respite from the bad road he’d been down over the past thirty years or so.
“So when do I get to meet Maddie?” Ron said when we’d moved him in, which consisted of throwing his duffel bag next to the sofa.
“That’s a question that can’t be answered just yet,” I said.
He looked at me, confused.
“Paula has not been cooperative regarding Maddie. And I’ve got to get a lawyer to help straighten things out. Problem is, I haven’t got the money to pay for one.”
“Lawyers are slime,” Ron said. His eyes reflected bitter experience.
“Maybe, but I need some slime right now.”
“What’s the beef?”
I shrugged. “It all comes down to Paula hooking up with another man. She won’t talk to me. Maybe that’s understandable.”
“Why?”
“I threw a bottle at her.”
Ron laughed. “That seems like regular domestic bliss.”
“I was out of control. I blew it. Now she won’t talk to me.”
“Hey, don’t take this all on yourself.” He made a circle in the air with his index finger. “All you have to do is connect with the Wheel.”
“Look,” I said, “you can stay here for a while and we can talk. But I’m not interested in your mojo.”
“That’s cool. Just trying to help.”
“When I want help, I’ll ask.”
“Right on. You’re not religious at all?”
“I believe in God.”
“The Christian God?”
“Something wrong with that?”
Reid shook his head. “Nah, Jesus was cool. He was one of the enlightened ones.”

He was really interested in Maddie, so I got out the photo album.
Bad idea, it turned out.
Going back to when Maddie was a baby, every photo was like sharp glass jabbing me. I’d see Paula in there, smiling. Or the two of us with Maddie, when somebody else took the shot. Arms around each other. Group hugs.
Ron would stop every now and then and ask about a picture.
There was Maddie, clomping around in her mom’s shoes.
At the beach, Maddie’s two-year-old buns to the wind.
Disneyland. Just outside Pirates of the Caribbean, Maddie wearing a pirate hat from the expensive gift shop. She’s glaring at the camera, like a real pirate.
“In her non-girly phase,” I said.
Maddie in the kitchen, making her favorite food, buttered toast, all by herself.
And then the one that made me clutch: Maddie right in the middle of Paula and me, arm around both our necks and a determined look on her face. It looked like she was trying to pull her mommy and daddy together. It was taken at a surprise birthday party I threw for Paula.
“You know what I see here?” Ron said.
I shook my head.
“Hope. I see hope here. It’s gonna work out, my man. Don’t ever give up.”
I did not know this man who was my father. Truth be told, I still felt very strange about his being here. But that was a nice thing he said and, considering the day I’d had, I was appreciative.

The receptionist’s eyes were wide and impatient. “Mr. Jennings does not see anyone without an appointment,” she said, as if this rule were inscribed on a stone tablet. It was Thursday morning, and in my mind a perfect time to interrupt a hot LA lawyer.
“Tell him anyway. My name is Mark Gillen and I’m not leaving until I see him.”
The office was on the fortieth floor of a gleaming building in Century City. The minimum rent had to be on par with the gross national product of Paraguay.
“Will you excuse me?” the receptionist said with stiff formality. She looked like a model.
I scoped the reception area. It was about three levels above Gregory Arsenault’s office in terms of snootiness. Some sort of African artwork was the theme of the place, with ebony statuettes and exotic plants taking up most of the space.
An ornately carved spear hung on one wall. I wondered if that was what The Destroyer used in court.
The receptionist returned, an angry look on her face. “Mr. Jennings will see you, but you’ll have to wait.”
“No prob,” I said. “I’ll just hang here in the jungle.”
Turns out I waited an hour and a half. I was sure he kept me waiting in order to tick me off. It worked. But I wasn’t going to let him know it.
The receptionist finally walked me to a corner office that was, once again, bigger and richer than my nonretained lawyer’s. In the middle of the ministadium, standing stiffly like some general, was a fiftyish man with a full head of perfectly coiffed black hair. His white shirt had no wrinkles. His silk, burgundy tie was perfectly knotted. But he was shorter than I’d expected. I thought anyone named The Destroyer would have to be six feet at least. This man was just over jockey size.
He stood there for a moment, unsmiling. Sizing me up. In my Nikes, jeans, and Lakers T-shirt, I did not fit in his world.
But then his white teeth showed and he stepped forward to shake my hand. “Bryce Jennings,” he said. “And before we say another word, do you have a lawyer?”
“Gregory Arsenault.”
“Ah, Greg. Good man. He’s the one I should be talking to. We can’t—”
“All right,” I said. “I haven’t retained him yet because I haven’t got any money.”
His eyes narrowed a bit. “Sit down.”
“Look,” I said, “by now you know all about my assets, or lack thereof, and probably all my personal habits as well. Did you know I sometimes snort when I sleep?”
Jennings said nothing.
“Yep, sometimes, for no reason I can think of, I snort and wake myself up. Paula used to laugh about that.”
Tapping his lower lip with his index fingers, Bryce Jennings waited for me to make a point.
“Anything else you want to know about me?” I said.
“Yes,” Jennings said. “I’d like to know if you want to save an enormous amount of pain and time and money and help your little girl, too.”
“What am I supposed to say to that? No?”
“Some people do.”
“What’s the catch?”
That got Bryce Jennings to smile. “No catch here, Mark. And despite what you may have heard, Satan is not a named partner in my firm. I know I have a reputation as being something of a—”
“Destroyer?”
“I detest that name, but what can you do? If pushed, I push back for my clients. But I would much rather settle a case without stress or strain. It’s best all around.”
“I only want what’s best. I’d like to sit down with Paula and talk this out.”
Jennings looked pained. “I’m sorry, but that’s not going to be possible at this point. Paula has made it perfectly plain that—”
“Paula or Troncatti?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Who’s paying your bill?”
“I can’t discuss that, of course.”
“What can you discuss?”
“Terms.”
Folding my arms, I waited for him to continue. No harm in listening, was there?
“What Paula would like is the least pain for you, believe me. These things happen. People fall in love, then fall out, we don’t know why. But we can’t change our feelings.”
“Then I guess marriage vows don’t mean anything.”
“It’s a different day and time,” Jennings said. “Marriage used to be enforced by the church, but that institution’s largely faded. We now recognize there’s more torture in sticking to a bad marriage than there is in divorce.”
“So my marriage was torture for Paula?”
“Sorry, Mark, that was just a metaphor. My point is, divorce is easier now, as it should be. We have to work to make sure it stays easy for all parties concerned.”
“All right, here is how we can make it easy. I want to go to counseling with Paula. I want her to give this a chance. I don’t know if she’s willing to do that or not—”
“As I said—”
“Let me finish.” I was feeling heat. “If she’s still going to press this forward, then maybe there’s nothing else I can do. I’ll have to move on. But I want Maddie. I want her living with me, not Paula and that jerk Troncatti.”
Jennings put one hand in the air. “Let’s not let personal animosity ensue here.”
That did it to me. “
Animosity ensue?
Why don’t you talk like a human being? This is my daughter I’m talking about. I want Maddie living with me. If you want to write that up in a paper and have me sign it, fine.”
Silence.
“Well?”
“Mark, I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.”
The chill in his voice was like something from the frozen north. The temperature in the office seemed to drop.
“Just what is that supposed to mean?” I said.
“It is Paula’s desire that Maddie live with her. Physical and legal custody would be required. You would get to see Maddie, of course.”
“Oh yeah? How often?”
“That’s to be determined.”
“And what if Paula and Troncatti decide to move to, say, Rome? What then?”
Jennings shrugged. “Relocation does happen, of course. People learn to deal with it.”
I couldn’t take this anymore. I stood up. “I’m not going to agree to that. You must think I’m nuts.”
He gave no immediate response, which ticked me off all the more.
“This is ridiculous,” I said. “If she thinks she’s going to take my daughter from me—”
“Her daughter as well.”
“—and live with Troncatti, it’s not going to happen. I’ll tell her that myself, right now.”
As I started to go, Jennings said, “Don’t call her.”
Turning on him, I tried to keep myself from jumping across his desk. “I’ll call her when I want to.”
Now Jennings stood. “This is your notice, under Penal Code section 653, that any further phone contact by you with my client will be dealt with as a harassment offense by the office of the District Attorney.”
When I finally got outside again, it felt like my arms and legs had been cut off. Like I was powerless to move, could not do anything.
God,
I kept repeating in my mind.
God help me.
On the street I found a phone with a phone book dangling and looked in the yellow pages under
Attorneys—Family Law.
I just had to get a lawyer, but one that would take this case without a whole lot up front. If that meant me calling every lawyer in the book, so be it.
I scanned a few of the ads and decided not to call these first. If they could afford to advertise, they probably charged the most.
Using my finger like a desperate guide dog, I scanned the page until something jumped out at me.
Father’s Rights,
it said.
Gee, did I have rights? Not if I listened to Bryce Jennings. I put in two quarters and called the number. A guy with a Brooklyn accent answered the phone. I told him what was happening.
“Get in here,” he said. “Now.”

They’ve tried to put a whole new face on Hollywood. At the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland they built this huge monstrosity of a shopping mall next to the famous Chinese Theater. The monstrosity also has a theater, The Kodak, where the Oscars are held.

To me, the whole thing is like a doily on a dung heap. There’s just no covering up the truth. Hollywood still has the homeless and the hustlers, the beggars and the bag ladies. It is just a little bit cleaner on the sidewalk is all.

At least it was clean just outside the tiny walk-up near Cherokee. The Father’s Advocacy Group office was a small, musty space with yellowed windows. About as far from the lofty status of Bryce Jennings as Beverly Hills is from South Central.

The New York voice was instantly recognizable. He was a small, sweaty man with a bad comb-over, maybe in his late forties. He spoke from behind a messy desk.

“That’s me,” I said.
“Sit down. Name’s Joe Pfeffer. One
P,
a whole lot of
F
s.” “Mark Gillen.”
We shook hands.
“Glad you came in. Coffee?”
“Sure.”
“Came out of my car battery just this morning.” Pfeffer spun

around in his wooden chair, which seemed 1950s vintage. The ancient springs squeaked. He poured some coffee from a little maker into a Styrofoam cup.
“Take anything in it?” he asked.
“Black is fine.”
“Good,” Pfeffer said, handing me the cup. “Take it straight to

the gut. Get used to it.”
“Used to what?”
“Getting it straight to the gut. Your first divorce?” “Yes,” I said. “Though I’m hoping she won’t go through with it.” “Then why are you here?”
“Because her lawyer said she wants full custody of our daughter.” “And she’ll get it, most likely.”
My breath left me in a rush.
“Sorry for the jolt,” Pfeffer said. “But I’m from New York. You