Authors: Ron Renauld
Eric shook his head to himself and walked off before Mr. Berger could see him.
Better luck next time, he thought.
CHAPTER •
7
Venice beach hugged the Pacific along the wide strip of sand between the Marina crowd and the tourist snarl surrounding the Santa Monica Pier. Bicyclists and roller skaters vied for the right of way on the sidewalk running parallel to the dwarfed homes, storefronts, and crumbling apartments facing off newly built condominiums with access to ocean views. Out in the water, a few swimmers stood waist deep dodging kelp beds as they waited for a wave they could body surf back into shore. A few dogs chased Frisbees thrown by teenage boys trying to impress girls tanning on nearby towels. The girls stretched out on their stomachs with their tops untied, pretended they weren’t enjoying the prick-teasing as much as the sun.
Marilyn O’Connor and Stacey Diamond jogged along the edge of the wet sand marking the tideline. Both in their early twenties, the girls were breathing lightly, not overextending themselves. Stacey’s brown perm was rebelling, billowing full in the breeze. She had large, dark eyes and full lips cocked in a ready smirk.
Marilyn played up her resemblance to her more famous namesake, in looks as well as manner. In a town obsessed with the search for the next Marilyn Monroe, she was the blonde bombshell incarnate.
“Marilyn,” Stacey said as she ran, “first there was the Scarsdale diet, and now it’s jogging. You get into every fad.”
“When in Rome . . .” Marilyn replied, breathless. “Besides, I have to get in shape. I’ll never be a model with these things.” A faint accent lingered on her voice. Australian.
“Oh, not that again.”
“I want to be somebody,” Marilyn said, winking at a male admirer watching them run. “I want to get treated with a little respect for once.”
“You got a lot of guys,” Stacey told her.
“Oh, yeah,” Marilyn sniffed. “When their girlfriends are out of town.”
“Well, at least you have an interesting job,” Stacey said, breaking out in laughter.
“Really. Handing out roller skates,” Marilyn pouted, slowing her pace. “A fate only worse than death. Everybody back home would think I was a big flop or something.”
“Oh, look, would you stop worrying about it,” Stacey said. She stopped running. “Hey, I’ve had enough.”
They walked a few steps, breathing in deep gulps of the salty offshore breeze.
“Let’s pig out,” Stacey suggested.
Marilyn giggled and scrunched up her nose, oinking.
They walked up from the shore to Ocean Front Walk, buying a cherry slurp from one of the concession stands and sharing it as they walked past the sidewalk merchants setting up shop for another day. Most of the mobile vendors handled stock better peddled at an Azusa swap meet: factory reject pottery, over-ripe produce, assembly-line gewgaws, hash pipes fashioned out of splintered driftwood.
A self-ordained gypsy sat knitting blue booties on a footstool next to a sign listing rates for fortune tellings and horoscope chartings. She was bloated with child beneath a Mexican tent dress.
“Predicting a boy, are you?” Stacey said to her as they passed.
The gypsy nodded.
“What if you’re wrong?” Marilyn asked.
The gypsy smiled at the booties. “I guess she’d be a feminist,” she said simply. “Would you like a reading?”
“No thanks,” Stacey said. “My boyfriend has crystal balls.”
“Oh, come on,” Marilyn argued, ignoring Stacey’s joke. “It might be fun.”
“Marilyn. We still have to go home and change before we go eat. We can’t be late for work again today.”
“Oh, all right,” Marilyn said, following her friend as they turned up Rose Avenue and headed for their house, several blocks away.
“Stacey, you have no sense of adventure,” Marilyn chided. “No sense of romance.”
“And you have no sense at all,” Stacey said with a smile.
“That wasn’t nice,” Marilyn said as they turned a final corner and stepped through the gate into their front yard. “You’re always running me down for trying to make my dreams come true.”
“Oh, Marilyn, quit being so oversensitive,” Stacey said, “I was just kidding with you. I think it’s great to dream. I do it all the time myself.”
“And what do you dream about?” Marilyn asked her.
“Negative calorie ice cream.”
They both laughed again as they bounded up the steps and into the house. It was small, but clean and decorated, however sparsely. They had a hard time coming up with the monthly rent and utility payments between them, so the rooms had a stark quality to them that was more obligatory than planned.
Marilyn went into her room. She had an old standing closet in addition to the one built into the wall, the first one being used strictly for storing her collection of T-shirts. The standing closet contained nothing but shelves, and they all were filled with rows of folded tops, like a section in a store. This was her fetish. There were days when she changed outfits as many as five times. If asked about this curious habit, she could come up with a dozen explanations for it; training for costume changes in the movies was her favorite.
She spent several minutes fingering through her collection before pulling out something in diagonal blue and red stripes. She took off the top she had been wearing, tossing it into the pile of dirty clothes in the far corner. She finished changing, putting on a red skirt and matching pumps. When she was finished, she looked like a flag.
CHAPTER •
8
Eric left through the back entrance of the building, the same way he had come in. When he saw Richie and Bart working on the loading dock, he groaned. They were the last people he wanted to see right now. If the adage were true that people tend to keep the roles they’ve chosen for themselves by the time they graduate from high school, then Richie must have been the class bully, with Bart as his tag-along sidekick. They were both Eric’s age, but had a few years of seniority on him with the company, and never set aside an opportunity to make sure Eric remembered it.
“Hey, Binford,” Richie called out, flexing his biceps as he hefted a supply box to Bart, who had a habit of constantly squinting from the irritation of bad-fitting contacts.
Eric tried to avoid them, but there was no other way to get to the Vespa.
“Settle this, willya?” Richie asked, “What was the fat man’s name in
The Maltese Falcon?”
“That’s easy,” Eric said without stopping.
“Okay, okay. What is it?” Bart demanded.
Eric halted long enough to ask, “What’ll you give me?”
“Hey, come on, man,” Richie said irritably, “we ain’t got all day. What was it?”
“Casper Gutman,” Eric said unenthusiastically, fishing through his pockets for the key to the Vespa while Richie and Bart settled up their bet.
Eric started for the bike, but suddenly had an idea. He turned back to Richie and Bart, calling out, “Listen. I got one for you guys. Only it’s gonna cost you money this time.”
“Yeah?” Richie said, “What’s the bit?”
“Casablanca.”
“Hey, I know that film backwards and forwards,” Richie said confidently. “I must’ve seen it fifty times.”
Eric bartered, “Only you gotta answer my question in forty-eight hours or you pay me twenty bucks . . . each.”
“All right, no sweat,” Richie countered. “And what do we get if we get it right?”
Eric thought about it a moment. He knew he’d have them if he could only get them to bite. The things he could do with forty bucks.
“I’ll give you fifty,” he said, smugly.
“It’s a trick,” Bart said.
“No, no, no. Wait,” Richie said, raising his hand to signal Bart quiet.
“And no fair looking at the print or the script in the meantime,” Eric amended.
Richie came over to Eric and stabbed at his sternum. “Hey, you know I know that film better than anybody,” he accused. “You sure this isn’t a sucker bet, Binford?”
Eric took a tentative step back from Richie, refusing to be intimidated. “No tricks,” he assured Richie coolly. “The answer’s in the film. Now put up or shut up!”
Richie and Bart exchanged glances.
“It’s a deal,” Richie finally said. “That’s a lotta dough but it’s a deal. All right?”
Eric walked up to them this time, savoring the moment. “What was Rick’s full name?” he asked nonchalantly.
“You mean Rick who owns the Café American?” Richie asked with disbelief. “The Bogart character?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a cinch,” Bart exclaimed.
“Wait a minute,” Richie said, snapping his fingers, as if the answer were a genie he only had to summon, “I got it on the end of my tongue. It’s . . .” It was apparently stuck there, and as he stared at the ground, sorting through his memory, he frowned.
“Take your time, Richie,” Eric said with satisfaction, walking off feeling as if he’d finally put his adversaries in their proper place.
“Hey, wait a minute, wait a minute,” Richie called after him, “I know it like I know my own name.”
It was obvious to Eric, however, that both Richie and Bart were stumped. Beaming, he strode over to the Vespa, a blue-gray two-wheeler. He loaded the things to deliver into a large delivery box welded onto the rear end and bearing the company’s initials. He straddled the seat and started the bike up, driving past Horace and off on his errands.
Back on the loading dock, Richie spat before going back to work.
“Hey, forget it,” he told Bart, “Binford, he’s . . . he’s sick in the head, he’s like retarded or something. We made a bet, right?”
Bart nodded uncertainly.
“Forget it,” Richie said. “A bet’s a bet. He’s gonna pay us.”
“He’s strictly a low-class production,” Bart put in.
“Man, he’s a space case or something. He’s a real asshole.”
Having skipped breakfast, Eric was hungry early in the day. Fortunately, one of his errands brought him to Santa Monica, and he was able to make a short detour to a greasy spoon in nearby Ocean Park where he’d been able to set up a tab. He parked the Vespa in front of the diner and went inside.
“Hey,” the cashier called out to him. He was a kid in his late teens, one of the few people impressed by Eric’s amassed knowledge of film trivia.
“Hey, V.Z.,” Eric told him, stepping up to the counter.
“How about the usual, Eric,” V.Z. said, leaning forward on the cash register to show off his own memory. “Two chocolate donuts, hot dogs with the works, fries, large coke?”
Eric belched just thinking about it. He nodded his approval and climbed up onto one of the stools lining the lunch counter.
It was still a half an hour before the lunch rush was due to start and the diner was only half-filled.
Marilyn and Stacey were sitting on either side of one of the booths next to the front window, talking over what was left of their brunch.
“You know,” Stacey told Marilyn, “I went to high school with this girl who looked exactly like Lana Turner. I always sort of felt like she looked down on me. Well, anyway, she went to Hollywood to be a big star.”
“And what happened to her?” Marilyn asked.
“She killed herself because she didn’t make it big,” Stacey said meaningfully. “Really.”
Marilyn pursed her lips.
“That wouldn’t happen to me. Don’t worry.”
“It better not,” Stacey said, still concerned.
Eric overheard their conversation and turned in his seat to take a look at the girls. His jaw dropped visibly when he spotted Marilyn.
“Ohhh,” Marilyn said, plucking up a greasy onion ring Stacey had tossed onto her plate. “What’s this piece of grundge?” She flicked the ring into neutral territory between her and Stacey. They both giggled their way back to less melodramatic ground.
“Okay, look,” Stacey promised, “no more advice. As of this minute you’re on your own.”
Eric couldn’t take his eyes off Marilyn. The resemblance was too much. When she looked up and their gazes met for the brief second before Eric turned away, he felt as if he were staring at his lost love. A hot flash ran over him, and a single rivulet of sweat beaded beneath one armpit and ran down his side. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, conjuring up the face of the Marilyn he knew. When he sneaked another glance at the girls in the booth, it was her sitting there facing him.
Marilyn.
Eric had taken off his jacket when he came into the diner and set it on the stool beside him. He casually wrapped his fingers around the coat and lifted it over one more stool, then, just as nonchalantly, changed seats and moved closer to the girls.
Halfway through his advance, Stacey noticed him and leaned forward, whispering to Marilyn, “Get a load of him.”
“Don’t be cruel,” Marilyn said softly. “He looks sweet.”
Once he was seated directly across from them, Eric slowly pivoted in his seat to face them. He already had their attention.
“Are you an actress?” he asked Marilyn.
“No,” she said.
“It’s amazing,” Eric commented, “You look exactly like—”
“We know,” Stacey interrupted coldly. “Everybody says that.”
Eric recoiled from the intended insult, but slowly recovered and forged onward again. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I just wanted to meet you. I’m a great admirer . . .”
“Enchanté.” Marilyn stumbled through a French accent as she extended her hand Eric’s way like royalty looking to have their rings kissed.
Wiping the sweat off his palms, Eric took the hand and shook it as if it were breakable on contact. He let go almost immediately and withdrew his hand to his side so she wouldn’t see it was trembling.
“What are you doing?” Stacey asked Marilyn.
“Cut it out,” Marilyn told her, talking just loud enough for Eric to hear. “He’s kinda cute.”
Charmed silent, Eric roamed hurriedly through his mind for something to say, something profound and utterly witty, that immortal line that would make her his.
All he could come up with was trivia.
“What was the name of the movie that Tom Ewell took you to see in
Seven Year Itch?”
he asked, pushing at the words to force them out.
Marilyn felt an immediate kinship with Eric. She played along, flaunting a teasing innocence.