Authors: James Scott Bell
I called Nancy from the car. “When will the contract for
Number Seven
be here?”
“Whoa there, Lightning,” Nancy said. “They haven’t even made a formal offer yet, but I understand your reading was a killer.”
Practically panting now, but trying not to sound desperate, I said, “Is there any way to speed the process along?”
“Hey, I’m just as anxious as you are, but this is not something we need to worry about. I’m sure it’s going to be a great offer, and I’ll do the agent thing and see how much higher we might be able—”
“I’m not concerned with the amount, but the
timing.
I need some money.”
Silence on Nancy’s end. Then: “Why?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Loan sharks? Mark, tell me you’re not into gambling.”
“No, Nancy.” I was on the freeway and realized I’d missed my off ramp. Not caring, I just drove. “It’s Paula. She’s hired a lawyer.”
“Oh no.”
“I went to a guy today and he wants twenty grand, up front.”
“Twenty! My lawyer only charged five when I divorced Frank.”
“Paula’s apparently hired some big lawyer.”
“Not Bryce Jennings, I hope.”
“Ding ding ding.”
Nancy cursed. “Look, my advice is to get out of this thing as quickly and quietly as possible. Maybe you can find a less expensive attorney, someone young and hungry who’ll—”
“Roll over and play dead?”
“Not what I meant.”
“Can I get some sort of advance on the money—from the agency maybe?”
“A loan? I wish you hadn’t asked me that. We just can’t—”
“I’m desperate here.” Oops.
“I know, I know. Look, let me give a call over to Barbara DiBova and see what the time frame is. But the way this works, don’t count on it. Meantime, take it easy. Try to relax. If Bryce Jennings is on this thing we don’t want to upset him. That would mean negative publicity.”
Her warning was well taken. I was not name enough to survive negative pub.
“You still there?” Nancy said.
“Yeah.”
“You hear what I said?”
“Sure.”
“Good. I’ll call you.”
Traffic had slowed to a crawl, and I saw why. A major car wreck on the side of the freeway. A silver Mercedes looked like an accordion and a Ford pickup was overturned. There were CHP cars and an ambulance there, lights flashing and all.
And on the ground, attended by paramedics, a man was sprawled, looking dead.
I don’t know why I decided to get off at Gower. Maybe, looking back on all that’s happened, it was God directing me. I sure didn’t make any conscious decision.
The Presbyterian church where I was married, where I’d attended with Maddie, was staring me right in the face.
Was it a sign? I realized I was looking for one.
I parked on the little street by the freeway, adjacent to the back of the church grounds. It had a security gate, which was understandable. This was Hollywood, after all. But for some reason the gate was not fully closed.
Another sign?
I walked in.
No one was around, as far as I could tell. There was a complex of rooms, some offices, a stairwell. It was quiet. I kept listening for a voice.
Hearing none, I wandered toward the big church building. Someone looking like a maintenance worker came out of the side door. He nodded at me, like my presence didn’t surprise him.
I nodded back and entered the door. I was in a corridor, again with no one around. Turning down a hallway, following my instincts, I saw another doorway and went through.
And found myself in the empty church.
The lights were off, but enough sun came through the stained glass windows that I could see just fine. The big pipes of the organ gleamed.
I don’t know exactly when I knew I was praying. I wasn’t down on my knees. My head wasn’t bowed, my eyes were open. But I was talking in my mind.
There’s a play called
The Ruling Class,
where the lead character becomes convinced he’s God. When asked why, he says that when he prayed, he found he was talking to himself.
That bit occurred to me as I sat there. But I did not at any time feel I was talking to myself. There was a sense that a presence was there. And I laid it all out.
Can you cut me a break on this one? All I want is my family to be together again. I want Paula and I want Maddie and I want to live in the apartment and I want to buy a house with the money I’ll be making on the show—which by the way thank you for—and Paula’s going to be a big star and I want to enjoy it with her, together. Can you do something please? I’ll do whatever you tell me to do, but I’m asking for this. I want to be with Paula and I want my daughter and whatever you want from me, you’ve got it.
I stopped when I realized I was crying. Not anything big, but a steady, warm pouring out of the soul. God was there, I believed that much. And the preacher said prayer worked. Well, it was time.
I stayed for a few more minutes, just to show God I didn’t pray and run, then slipped quietly out the back.
“There was a guy asking about you,” Julio said. He did work around the apartment building, landscaping, some handyman stuff.
“What guy?”
“Don’t know. Ask when you be home.”
“He didn’t give you his name?”
Julio shook his head. “And I didn’t say nothing. Didn’t feel good.”
“What’d he look like?”
Julio shrugged.
“How old?”
“Fifty maybe.”
That would have ruled out my immediate circle of friends.
“Did he say he was going to come back?”
“Didn’t say nothing. Just walk away.”
Creepy. A guy asking about me, not leaving a name. Anger flaming up, I charged up to my apartment and called Paula. Surprisingly, she answered. I’d expected her voice message.
“What is it?” She sounded tired.
“Can I ask you a question please?”
“If it’s about Maddie, I told you—”
“No, not about Maddie. Yet. Just between you and me.” I was struggling to keep my anger in check. My theory might not even be right, so I had to give her the benefit of the doubt. Also, I was hoping—again—that we could talk about things.
On the other hand, my rage was something I could not fully control. “Did you hire a private investigator?”
No immediate answer.
“Did you?”
“You are supposed to get a lawyer,” Paula said.
“That’s not an answer.”
“My lawyer says I’m not supposed to talk to you, Mark.”
“Are you a puppet on a string?” Another thought hit me. How much was Troncatti involved in this? Was he telling Paula what to do as well?
“I just have to do what’s right.”
“This
isn’t
right, Paula. This is so wrong. Maddie needs both of us. She needs us together. I don’t care what people think they can do when they divorce. The best thing is to have us together under one roof.”
“No.”
“Please. Will you just call this thing off for a while? We can get counseling, or we can try something my lawyer suggested—”
“So you do have a lawyer.”
I sighed. “We don’t need to do it this way. There’s a free service we can try. Why bring lawyers into it?”
“I have to do what’s best for Maddie.”
“What are you talking about? How is this good for her?”
“I can’t talk to you right now, Mark. I was told—”
“Come on!” I was ready to yank the phone cord from the jack. “Don’t turn this into a thing with investigators and lawyers and all that. We can work this out.”
There was no answer, but some fuzzy sound. “Paula?”
The next voice I heard was male. With an accent. “Don’t you call her again!” it said. Then the line cut out.
Troncatti. The great Antonio Troncatti himself. Ordering me around. Had to be.
I did rip the cord out.
Next morning I walked to the bank, a couple of blocks away, to see what I could possibly borrow. The very nice woman at the desk tried not to sound completely disheartening, but I had nothing to secure the kind of loan I needed to get my lawyer his retainer.
I called my life insurance company. They reminded me I had term insurance. Nothing to borrow against.
Duh,
they must have thought.
Credit cards. I had a Visa and MasterCard. Or, rather, I shared them with Paula. Digging out our last bills I saw that there was roughly $8,000 available on the Visa and $4,500 on the MasterCard.
So back to the bank lady I went. I asked her if I could get a cash advance of $12,000. She told me to wait. When she came back she had that same look on her face from before.
“No available funds,” she said.
“What? How can that be?”
“You have a joint account on both cards. There’s been some sort of activity to stop advances. This sometimes happens.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “In divorce cases.”
Must have been written all over me.
I walked out of the bank into a bright, hot afternoon. It had now been three days since I’d seen Maddie, and I could feel it. We’d not been apart for more than a matter of hours in a long time. As I walked down Ventura Boulevard, feeling a little sick, I remembered the time a few weeks ago when Maddie got sick herself. We’d been to the movies. I took her to see the new Disney animated feature and splurged on candy. We made it through the movie and into the car.
But as soon as we were in traffic Maddie said, “Daddy, I don’t feel good.”
She looked so little in her car seat. “What’s the matter?”
“My tummy.”
Right. Good old Dad had done it again with the diet. “Hang on, pumpkin, we’ll be home in a—”
At which point my lovely daughter spewed all over the back seat. It was no small act; it was operatic in its scope.
She started crying.
“Oh, pumpkin, I’m sorry—” Then the smell hit and I knew that I would have to get about fifty air fresheners for my car mirror.
I carried her up to the apartment and promptly got her into a bath. She was subdued. No talk about Bible characters or cartoon shows or the latest kindergarten scandal. All she wanted was to feel better.
After she was in her pj’s I gave her what Gram used to give me when I had a similar ailment—a little 7 UP. Then I put her in bed and read her a Dr. Seuss.
With that done I turned out her light and started preparing for an industrial cleanup job on my car.
“Don’t go,” she said.
“You want me to stay awhile?”
“I want you to sleep in here.” She put her hand out and touched my arm.
“There’s no bed,” I said.
“You can sleep on the floor,” Maddie replied, and then with sudden concern for my well-being, she added, “with a pillow.”
“But I have to—” I stopped myself. The car could wait. I’d make it a hundred air fresheners if I had to. “I’ll get a pillow and blanket,” I said.
And so I had a little slumber party with my daughter. We talked for about an hour, on all sorts of things. She especially wanted to hear about some of the trouble I got in when I was little, which is a vast reservoir to draw from.
When I realized she wasn’t talking anymore, but breathing rhythmically, I switched off the lamp. I stayed there a long time, listening to her breath. No amount of money could have coaxed me out of that room at that moment. Eventually I fell asleep.
Now, walking down the street without aim, I kept that picture of Maddie and me in mind.
No amount of money—
Now money was very much what I needed.
At the corner I stopped by the bus stop and casually looked back behind me.
That’s when I saw him.
He was dressed in jeans and a blue Hawaiian shirt. His hair was grayish and long. Behind his sunglasses I imagined two eyes looking directly at me.
There was a good distance between us, maybe fifty yards or so, but I had no doubt this was the guy Julio had mentioned.
Now what? Should I go up and confront the guy? Get in his face and tell him to leave me alone?
Maybe that’s what Vance, my character on
Number Seven,
would do. But I quickly reminded myself this was life, not TV. I’d never had anyone tailing me before (at least not that I knew of ).
And what if I was just paranoid? This could be some guy just looking up the street, waiting for a ride.
One way to find out. I continued on up to the corner and turned right, picking up my pace past the little strip mall on the right. The twenty-four-hour laundry, where I’d spent some time in the past, was doing a good business. As I looked past the laundry to the sidewalk, I noticed the guy was not in view.
All this was my overactive imagination, I told myself. But I’d started this little game and might as well play it to the limit.
I walked down the side street, past the Taco Bell, and turned down an alley, heading back toward my building. On my left was a block wall, behind which was a residential area. On my right were the backs of buildings—offices, a Thai restaurant, Jiffy Lube. It was like being in a concrete canyon.
Behind me, no sign of the guy. I laughed a little. Urban paranoia, nothing else. It showed me just how much I was on edge.
Which left the question open, who was asking about me at the building? By the time I reached the end of the alley, my mind was full of sneaking suspicions again. The only thing I was sure of was that it had to be someone Paula had hired. Or The Destroyer.
When I turned down my own street I was not anywhere nearer the money I needed than I had been before. My thoughts were just a merry-go-round of repetitions, with no new revenue sources turning up. I must have been pretty deep in my own mind because I actually let out a yelp when I saw him again.
The guy in the Hawaiian shirt stepped off the front steps of the apartment building and smiled at me.
“You ditched me,” he said.
I took a step back and glared at him. “Why are you following me?”
“Mark,” he said, “don’t you recognize your old man?”
Of course not. How could I recognize someone I had never known?
Still, there was a resemblance. Or maybe it was just a projection on my part. I only knew I didn’t want this to be my father. One major upheaval in my life at a time, please.
“Come on, who are you really?” I said.
“I really am,” he said.
“No way.”
He took off his shades. I almost gasped. I could see my eyes in his. “Your mom’s name was Estelle. When I knew her she liked being called Rainbow.”
My heart almost kicked its way out of me.
“I know this must seem bizarre.” He had an easy smile. “How about I buy you a cup of coffee and we talk?”
Every corner in LA now has a Starbucks. In a daze I let this gray-haired, smiling stranger buy me an upscale cup of joe. We sat outside under a green umbrella.
“I know it’s weird,” he said.
“You got that right. What’s your name, anyway?”
“Ron Reid.”
That was the right name. Mom had talked about him a few times to me before her death.
“So why are you showing up now?” My body felt like a sack of wet laundry, weighted down by the liquid of mental strain. I had no idea how to deal with this. Part of me wanted to lash out.
When you grow up without a father, you’re always aware other kids have something you don’t. Not that all kids had dads at home, but all of my friends at school had dads somewhere and got to see them.
And when Mom died, I put some of the blame on my father, wherever and whoever he was. If he had been around, things might have been different. And maybe there wouldn’t have been this hole right in the middle of me.
“It took me a long time to work up the courage.” Reid looked down at the white lid of his coffee cup. “I wasn’t exactly a dad for you.”
“Did you ever try to see me?”
He shook his head. “Your mom made it clear she wanted me out of both of your lives.”
“So what happened to you?”
Reid leaned back in a little. “I did some serious federal time at Terminal Island. I’m an ex-con, just so you know.” “I knew that.”
“Which follows you around the rest of your life. Hasn’t been a smooth ride for me. I’ve been all over the place, done a lot of different things. Welder. Carney. I was even a DJ in Tuscaloosa for a while.”
“Looks like you have trouble holding a job.” My tone was not warm, understanding, or talk-showy. What I wanted to do was grill him. A churning of resentment was roiling around inside me.
“Boy howdy,” he said. “Part of it was just getting bored. If I’m not engaged, I can’t stay with something.”
“Engaged?”
“With the Wheel.” He smiled at my perplexed look. “Have you heard of Mahayana?”
“Is that a resort or something?”
“No, it’s a form of mysticism.”
“Then the answer is no.”
“I was a religious studies major at Berkeley. I don’t know if you knew that.”
“Nope.”
“That never left me. I went to India for a while.”
“Didn’t the Beatles do that? I read it in a history book.”
“Ouch, man.” He laughed. There was something laid-back and easy about him. He might have been a typical Southern California surfer, but one who hadn’t grown up. His body was lean.
“But of all the world religions, Buddha was the one who got it right. You ever read
Siddhartha
?”
“No.
Variety.
He blinked, then nodded with understanding. “Right. You’re an actor. You should be into this. Mahayana is a form of Buddhism that is positive, not negative. Instead of saying that one finds salvation by escape from Samsara, which is an endless series of rebirths, you find it the other way, in the Wheel of Becoming.”
“This sounds seriously weird.”
“Only because you’re of a Western mind-set. If you experience it, you know it makes perfect sense. Nirvana, see, is not found through the extinction of desire, as in older Buddhism. Nirvana is found in the self to be
attained,
not the self to be
stamped out.
This is how you can make each day a divine experience.”
What was I doing here, I suddenly thought, listening to an ancient hippie and his riff about wheels and Nirvana? That he could be my father was disturbing.
“Why were you following me around?” I said.
“Good question,” Ron Reid said. “I’m not sure I have a good answer from your perspective.”
“Then give me a good answer from any perspective.”
“I guess I wanted to know you a little first without you knowing me. I was nervous.”
“How did you find out where I lived?”
“Not hard to do these days,” he said. “Computers and all. Did I mention that I was a private investigator for a while?”
“Apparently not.”
“Unlicensed, because of the felony thing. It didn’t last long. But I’ve always been a good student.”
So far, nothing he said seemed real. But it didn’t seem entirely far out, either.
“So where do we go from here?” I said.
For a long moment he sat in silence. “I just thought maybe we could try to reconnect.”
“Why?” It sounded cold, but I was still defensive.
“Because,” he said, “I found out I have a granddaughter.”