Breach of Promise (14 page)

Powerlessness. That’s how I felt when I finally got out of the wringer that was Sheila Bonner.
The rest of the grilling had gone pretty much the same way. Now Ms. Bonner held my immediate future in her hands. A future with or without Maddie.
I could hardly stand the wait until tomorrow, when we’d be back in court.
I drove over to Jerry’s Famous Deli, where industry types like to eat. It boosted my ego a little. As an out-of-work actor I’d come here and eat the pickles. Now I was, at least, going to have a regular part on a series. I could afford a sandwich.
I ordered a pastrami on rye and looked at a copy of
Variety
Couldn’t focus on anything. My mind was playing a movie.

Fade in: Troncatti’s massive home. Maddie wakes up in a big, fluffy bed, surrounded by a whole bunch of new stuffed animals.
She goes down for breakfast in the huge dining room, overlooking a pool in the backyard.
“Can I swim today?” she asks Antonio Troncatti. “Tony” is reading
Variety
and sipping espresso.
“Of course-a you can,
bambina
,” he says (my movie has clichés and Troncatti’s voice sounds like he’s from
The Godfather).
Paula wanders in, kisses Troncatti. “Maybe we can take Maddie to Disneyland today, huh?”
“You want-a Disneyland?”
“Yes!” Maddie says.
“You got-a Disneyland!”
After Troncatti goes off to do his hair and nails, Maddie looks at Paula. “When will I see Daddy again?”
Paula gets very serious. “Honey, Daddy doesn’t want to see us anymore.”
“Huh?”
“Daddy tried to hurt me, you see. And he might do the same to you.”
“But Daddy wouldn’t ever—”
“Daddy’s not the same person he was. That’s why I brought you here, to live with Tony and me. You’re safe here, and you’ll have everything you want.”
“But won’t Daddy be lonely?”
“No, honey. Daddy doesn’t like us anymore. He told me so.”

Lies!
I almost shout it out right there in Jerry’s. Am I going crazy now? Is that the way it’s going to be? Will I . . .
“Are you okay?”
I looked up and saw a woman, about twenty-five, with silky blond hair.
“What?”
“You looked like you had a pain there,” she said. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to say hi to you.”
She looked vaguely familiar.
“I’m Nikki McNamara,” she said. “From Gower Presbyterian.”
I did recognize her. We’d passed each other the last time I was at church. I asked her to have a seat.
“I’m supposed to meet someone,” she said. “So don’t think me rude if I get up.”
“Hey,” I said, “at this point rude would be a step up.”
She looked at me quizzically, but then she smiled. It was a great smile, too.
“You’re an actress,” I said.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Just a hunch. You could throw a dart in here and odds are you’ll hit an actor or a screenwriter.”
“I’m in the theater company at the church. Actors Cooperative. Heard of it?”
“Yeah. You get some great reviews.”
“We have good people.”
“Are all of you members of the church?”
“Not all of us. We’re all Christians, though.”
“Christian actors? You don’t hear that term much in this town. Sort of like
honest lawyer.
She laughed. “Before I do any more confessing, you didn’t tell me your name.”
“Mark Gillen.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
My sandwich arrived.
“Can I buy you lunch?” I said.
“Oh, thanks. I’m meeting someone.”
“Right.” I found myself hoping it wasn’t a man.
“Are you getting involved at Gower Pres?”
“Well, I sort of go sometimes. I’m leaning in that direction.”
“Going to church?”
“God and things.”
“That’s good. God is a very good thing.”
“I’m hoping.”
Nikki cocked her head, waiting for me to explain. “Just for personal reasons,” I said.
“You an actor?”
“My SAG card says I am.”
“Cool. Why don’t you come by and hang with us?” “Really? When?”
“We have a Wednesday night Bible study and play reading. Down at the church. Hey, tomorrow. Come by about seven.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe I will.”
“I hope you do.”
“Hey, Nikki.” A dark-haired woman, a little older than Nikki, came over to the table.
“Here she is,” Nikki said. “This is Cheline Lester. Another of the gang. Cheline, this is Mark.”
We exchanged pleasantries. Nikki stood up. “Thanks for the chat.”
“Sure.”
Off they went. And I found myself surprised at how glad I was Nikki had not met a man.

At 2:30 I called Nancy and got her assistant.
“She’s in a meeting, Mark,” Rachel said.
“Can you have her give me a call on my cell?”
“Sure thing.”
I drove over to Tower Records and spent a little time listening

to sound tracks. Movie scores are my favorite kind of music. I love the classic Maurice Jarre scores to movies like
Doctor Zhivago
and
Witness.
And Bernard Herrmann, who made the Hitchcock experience so much more memorable. I also like the haunting, lyrical quality of some of the new ones, like Mark Isham, who did
October Sky
and
A River Runs Through It.

It’s the sort of music that can transport you.
Around four I went to the newsstand at Van Nuys and Ventura and got a
USA Today.
My attention span could only take in nuggetsized chunks. McNewspaper was perfect.
I was reading about a bombing in Tel Aviv when my phone went off.
“Sorry I couldn’t get back to you sooner,” Nancy said.
“A busy agent is a good agent.”
Silence.
“You there?” I said.
“Mark, can you swing by?”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose I can. Why?”
“Just come in.”
I knew then it was bad news. An agent always tells you the good stuff over the phone.
“What is it, Nancy? Tell me now.”
“Mark—”
“Please.”
“I’d rather you come in.”
“Is it about
Number Seven
?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me. Tell me now.”
Pause. “They dropped you, Mark.”

Of course I knew it was not a good thing to curse at God. Did I care?
No.
My curse took the form of tears at first. I cried hard, for the first time in a long time. I sat in my car so people on the street couldn’t see me unless they looked real hard. No one did.
Offing myself entered my head for a moment, making an appearance like a ham actor with two lines. That scared me a little. But the thought didn’t hang around, and I chalked it up to the stress of the moment and yelled at myself for being such a wimp.
The next option seemed better. I drove down Ventura looking for a LIQUOR sign. No way I was going in to see Nancy. Not in the mood I was in. Changing my mood is why I wanted a liquor store. I found one a few blocks away and pulled into the parking lot.
And sat there for about fifteen minutes. My legs wanted to walk in and buy a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. My throat thought it was a great idea, too. But I fought it. For some reason I was thinking of that old movie,
The Lost Weekend,
where Ray Milland does a great job showing the horrors of drink. He goes a little nuts, sees terrible visions.
An argument started in my head, like when the little angel and the little devil sit on opposite shoulders in a cartoon. The devil was saying this would be a one-time thing, and where was the harm if you’re alone and responsible? The angel kept saying Maddie’s name, over and over.
I didn’t buy the booze. And I was mad about that, so I screeched into a Jack in the Box and ordered four—count ’em, four—spicy chicken sandwiches. I wolfed one down as I got on the freeway, so I could drive fast. I wolfed down another one as I tore down the Santa Monica freeway and then up the 405.
My stomach was full but I managed to stuff a third belly bomb down my throat, not caring if it came back up.
At 6:45 I saw I was coming up on Universal Studios. The big black tower where the suits make all the decisions hovered over the freeway like some glass King Kong. Up on the hill, Universal City Walk, a neon jungle of overpriced tourist stores and restaurants, was getting ready for the evening rush. Colored lights would be evident soon, turning the sky into some sort of artificial impressionist canvas—the color of LA hip.
And for one second I almost felt better. Despite all the crud that happens here every day, I actually like Los Angeles. It’s my home, where I grew up, and I know it well. I’ve had dark days when everything seemed pointless turn into warm, pleasant memories in various places in the city—going with friends to the Hollywood Bowl; sloshing in the surf at Zuma Beach; kickin’ it with Roland and some cool jazz.
All of that hit me at once under the shadow of Universal, and I was just about to let all the bad stuff melt away.
That’s when the kid in the truck cut me off.
Weaving in and out of lanes is almost a sport in LA, especially if you’re a punk with a pickup. More and more of these testosteronelaced, backward-baseball-hat-wearing dweebs are being handed trucks by Mommy and Daddy so they can race around at ninety miles per hour and show how macho they are.
Any pleasant change got yanked away from my spirits, as if chained to the guy’s bumper. And anger flared.
So I chased him. Flashing my lights. Honking.
Road rage. Another urban sport.
What was I doing? People get shot over this stuff. I didn’t care. There was no justice in the world, so I was going to bring a little to the blacktop.
I changed lanes without a signal, cutting off a guy in a Toyota. He honked at me, and that added more fuel to the chase.
Traffic slowed, and the truckster got pinned up ahead, giving me the chance to really lay it on his backside with my horn. He cut over a lane, almost nicking a Mercedes.
I followed, gunning the gas. No thoughts at all in my mind, just a blind desire to make life miserable for someone besides myself.
It felt good to be mad. It felt good to have all other thoughts run away and hide in fear of my all-consuming rage.
The pickup found an opening that let him get a good lead. I was hemmed in for the moment, but it wouldn’t be for long.
I changed lanes again, in front of a Ryder truck, the driver of which added to the fun by blaring his horn at me.
A little VW got in my way, slowing for no good reason, so I gave it a good rebuke from my horn. The driver, an Asian woman, looked back at me, confusion on her face. I honked again.
On I went, keeping the truck in sight. Not knowing—not caring—what I’d do if I ever followed it off the freeway. Crazy time.
Then I noticed the flashing lights behind me.
My nerve endings erupted. That couldn’t be for me. No way was I being told to pull over by the California Highway Patrol.
No, no, no, no, no, no!
Yes. He was on my tail. And the jerk in the truck was getting away.
Come on!
The Chippie blared his siren. I was toast.
I took the next off ramp, driving as carefully as I could. Staying within the lines. Maybe I could act my way out of this one. After all, how bad could this be? I hadn’t hurt anyone. It was not my fault!
I pulled to a stop across from a tire store.
The CHP officer was not a
he
. It was a woman. Tough looking. But somehow this gave me hope. Call me a chauvinist, but I was sure I’d get through this okay.
“May I see your driver’s license please?” Her chest pin said MEADOWS.
“Was I speeding?” A cliché was all I could come up with.
“License, please.”
Right. And after countless cop encounters on TV, I knew I had to remove it from my wallet. I tried to keep my hands from shaking too badly. So far so good.
Officer Meadows glanced at my license. “Mr. Gillen, did you know you were weaving on the freeway for about three miles?”
“Weaving?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, I may have been a little distracted.”
“Distracted?”
“Did you see that guy ahead of me?”
“All I saw was you changing lanes without signaling, weaving in and out. That’s reckless driving.”
“Wait.” I put my hands out like a kid caught in the kitchen before dinner. “There was a guy who cut me off and I . . .”
“Wanted to teach him a lesson?”
“Officer, come on.”
“Have you had anything to drink?”
“What? No!”
“Do you mind stepping out of the car?”
Stepping out? What was this?
“Am I under arrest? Don’t I get to talk to an attorney?”
“Please step out of the car, sir.”
Something happen, please.An earthquake would be good. A nice California 6.9 shaker ...
I got out, on solid ground.
“I am going to ask you to perform a test,” Officer Meadows said.
“I am not drunk! I have had nothing to drink!” The injustice of the accusation really hit me, especially after I’d talked myself out of the Jack Daniel’s.
“Listen to my instructions, sir.” Meadows removed a pen from her pocket. “I am going to ask you to keep your head straight and follow the movement of this pen with your eyes. Is that clear?”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Are you refusing?”
“Let me level with you,” I said. “I need a break here. I’m in a big-time battle for custody for my daughter. She’s only five, and I think she is getting hurt, and I’m getting hurt, and this doesn’t make one bit of difference to you, does it?”
Officer Meadows shook her head.
“Then give me a test,” I said. “I want you to take me in and have me pee in a cup. I want to see your face when the test results come back. Just do it, Officer Meadows.”
What she did was write me up for reckless driving, right on the spot.
Then she actually said, “Have a nice day.” Sometimes Los Angeles is a sprawling city of clichés.
Ron was watching TV when I walked through the door.
“Good news, Mark. I found a place.”
“Great.”
“Yeah. Little studio. Not the nicest, but I think I can make it work.”
“When do you move in?”
“Tomorrow. That cool?”
“Groovy,” I said, tossing out a word he might appreciate. Truth be told, I was getting annoyed at the sight and sound of him. He was a graying longhair who seemed to have missed the reality boat. He was still living in the age of Hendrix, whose music I could do without.
Ron looked at me. “Only . . .”
“Only what?”
“I hate to ask.”
“Money?”
Ron Reid shrugged.
“I just gave you a hundred,” I said. “Where did it go?” “I didn’t spend it.”
“You didn’t score some dope, did you?”
“Hey, man.”
“Hey nothing.”
“Whoo. Something happen today?”
“Forget about it.”
“Come on. Let me help you get out of this reality.” “Ron, do me a favor.”
“Yeah?”
“Put a cork in it.”