Fade to Blue (14 page)

“What’s the matter?” Andie sits down opposite me.

“I don’t know. I just would have liked to see the script first.”

Andie taps her fingers on the contract. “Does it really matter? This looks pretty legit to me. I don’t think you can complain about the money either. They’re going to make this movie whether you like the script or not.”

I know she’s right, and I’ve never heard of a composer having any say about the script. But something nags at me I can’t quite explain.

“What?”

“I don’t know. I guess I don’t want to score a movie I don’t like.”

Andie takes my hand. “Look, this is your first time out. You still get screen credit and it could lead to other things, take you a new direction. You want that, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes I do.”

Maybe I didn’t know how much until now. I think about all the years I’d spent scuffling for gigs, the rare recordings, the accident that set me back and sent me into rehab, all the missed opportunities. How many more would I have? I was getting a bit old to be discovered. Maybe this was it, a way out of the maze of the struggling musician. It didn’t mean I had to give up playing. I’d never do that.

I blink as Andie waves her hand in front of my face. “Earth to Evan. Sign it. Let’s celebrate. You’re going to be a film composer.”

By almost return mail, I get a check from Grant Robbins for the initial payment, and a note of thanks, promising me I’d done the right thing. We’re busy with casting and preproduction, his note said. The screenplay, however, isn’t as fast in arriving.

I’d kept the check around for a week or so, just glancing at it occasionally, a reminder that this was the first time I’d been paid for simply signing some papers. Finally, succumbing to Andie’s prompts to put it in the bank, I gave in, smiling as I noted the look on the teller’s face as she took in the Ryan Stiles Productions, Inc. logo on the check. She hardly blinked at the amount.

I’d spent my days practicing, doing the occasional gig with new contacts I was making, and taking long walks along the river; my nights, with Andie, whenever she could get away from the Bureau. I’d even begun to play around with writing, thinking whatever character Ryan Stiles played he would need a signature theme.

The one dark spot was still there. Still not a word on the capture of Gillian Payne. Not even a lead. According to Andie, she’d simply gone underground.

“Don’t worry,” Andie told me repeatedly. “We’ll get her.”

***

On the second Saturday after receiving the check, I get an unexpected call. “Evan? It’s Bonnie Stiles, Ryan’s mother.”

I try to keep the surprise out of my voice as I answer. “Hi, Bonnie. What can I do for you?”

“Believe it or not, I’m in San Francisco, visiting an old friend. I wondered if you might be free.”

My impression of Bonnie and Tom Stiles was not one of them taking separate trips. “Well, yeah I guess. Something on your mind?”

“Yes,” she says, sounding a little tentative. There’s a slight pause. “I’d rather not talk about it on the phone. I hoped maybe we could meet, get together.”

“When?”

“Today, if possible. I’m going back home this evening. I know I should have called earlier. If you’re busy, it’s okay.” She tells me her friend is in North Beach.

“No, that’s fine. There’s a coffee place near you called Cafe Greco. It’s on Columbus Avenue, near City Lights Bookstore.”

“Oh, I know City Lights,” she says, almost relieved. “One o’clock?”

“Sounds good.” We both pause for a moment. “Bonnie, can you tell me what this is about?”

“It’s about Ryan.”

Chapter Fourteen

Even a little before noon, The Golden Gate Bridge is crawling with traffic heading into the city. The temperature has already dropped fifteen degrees, and the looking across the bay, I can see the city through hazy white clouds, the water dotted with sailboats. I finally make it to the tollbooths, then merge with the traffic heading toward downtown. I take Bay Street, then turn toward North Beach at Columbus, noticing the huge Tower Records store is now vacant and deserted. Yet another ominous sign of the music scene.

I circle around the jammed North Beach streets a few times before finally finding a parking space I can squeeze the VW into, lock the car, and walk down to City Lights Bookstore. I spend a half hour browsing, getting reacquainted with the store, and pick up a paperback copy of Elmore Leonard’s
Be Cool
. I pay for the book and walk back up Columbus. I find a free table in front of Cafe Greco and sit down to wait for Bonnie Stiles with a few minutes to spare, still puzzling over her call.

The street traffic is heavy as usual and the sidewalks are swarming with people rushing about. At five after one, I spot Bonnie in the crowd and stand up as she nears the cafe. She smiles when she sees me and comes over, a little out of breath, carrying a bag with a department store logo. She’s dressed smartly in slacks, a dark sweater, and a light jacket. “Hello,” she says. “Thanks for coming. Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t resist a little shopping.”

“No problem. Always fun to come into the city. Sit down. I’ll get us coffee.”

“One of those big yummy lattes for me, please.” She sits down and takes off the jacket.

I go inside, jostling my way through the crowd for our order, then thread my way back outside. “Here you go.” I set the bowl-sized cups on the table with a handful of sugar packets, and sit down opposite Bonnie. She already has a cigarette going. I take mine out and join her.

“Ah, coffee in San Francisco with a fellow smoker,” she says, “and nobody around to tell us not to.”

We sip our drinks for a couple of minutes, just taking in the hustle of Columbus Avenue. I wait her out, letting her get to the purpose of this visit on her own time. I watch her study the traffic and people, then finally, she stubs out her cigarette and turns to me.

“Ryan tells me you’re going to do the music for his new movie.”

“Yes, already signed on the dotted line. How’s it going? Have you heard anything?”

“No, Ryan never talks about business things much with us.” She looks away for a moment, then turns back to me. “Well, I guess I owe you an explanation.”

“I admit I was a bit surprised to hear from you. It’s about Ryan, you said.”

She nods, looking down at her coffee. There’s the same concern on her face I saw when I was at the house to pick up Ryan’s car. “Yes. I don’t know if it’s important, but I just want to tell you something.” She looks up at me. “I can trust you, can’t I?”

“With what?”

She shifts in her chair. “First, I need to ask you something. The night after the, whatever it was at that restaurant, when he came and stayed at our place, what did he tell you?”

“The same thing he told the police. He left the Anchor, drove to your place and spent the night.”

“That’s all?”

I look away for a moment, deciding there’s no point in holding back. “No, there was more. He also said his dad didn’t see him come in or even know he was there until morning.”

Bonnie shakes her head. “That’s true. Tom was asleep.” A tiny smile curls her lips. “He could sleep through an earthquake.” She pauses for another moment and takes a deep breath. “Tom didn’t see Ryan, but I did. “I was awake. I got up and went to the kitchen for a drink of water when I saw headlights suddenly flash in the driveway. It was Ryan. He came in so fast I thought he was going to hit the garage. I watched him jump out of the car and come in. The look on his face when he saw me, I didn’t know what to think. He looked so upset.

“I asked him what he was doing there, what was wrong. He just brushed past me, and said, not now Mom, I have to get some sleep.”

“Do you remember what time it was?”

“Yes, just after one thirty. I remember glancing at the kitchen clock.” She rubs her hand across her forehead. “I made him stop and sit down at the kitchen table. He looked so scared, and suddenly he wasn’t a movie star anymore, he was my boy and in trouble.”

“We sat there in the darkened kitchen and he told me how angry he was at that photographer, how he’d driven away up the coast then parked for awhile along the beach, trying to cool off, get control of himself before he went home. He finally decided he didn’t want to face Melanie or you or anybody, and started toward our house. Halfway over Malibu Canyon, he saw a motorcycle behind him, driving close. He said he panicked, then drove faster, but the other driver stayed right with him, chasing him.”

Bonnie’s eyes glaze over as she remembers Ryan’s words. “There was a sharp curve and when he looked in the mirror, the motorcycle was gone. He stopped, turned around and went back, saw the guardrail was broken. He got out of his car and looked over the edge. It was so dark. He thought he could see the motorcycle halfway down the embankment, but he wasn’t sure.” She looks at me again. Her eyes pool. “He put his hands over his face and just sobbed. I’ve never seen him like that. I tried to comfort him, told him to go to bed and we’d talk about it in the morning.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

I let her go, not sure I wanted to hear more.

She shakes her head, rubs her hands together. “I know I should have, but the next morning, he was fine, like he hadn’t even seen me, as if the night before hadn’t happened.”

“Did you tell Tom?”

“No.”

I light a cigarette and watch the traffic for a minute. “Bonnie, do you think he was telling the truth?”

Her eyes widen in surprise. “Yes, of course I do.” She looks at me for a moment. “I know what you’re not saying. That at the very least Ryan should have called the police and reported the accident.”

I don’t answer that one. “What is it you want from me, Bonnie?”

“Should I have told the police? They didn’t even talk to me, just Tom.”

“Bonnie, the incident at the Anchor with the photographer was pretty ugly, and it wasn’t the first with McElroy. Ryan was angry and upset. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you about his temper. He just had to get away, so he went home. I don’t think it means anything else.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m going to be frank with you, Bonnie. You might not like hearing this but…”

“What?”

“When I saw that Tom had had the car detailed, I went to Manny’s to see for myself. I talked to Manny. He said as far as he knew there was no damage to the car.”

Bonnie is quiet for a minute, digesting this. “Good,” she says finally. “I’m glad somebody did.” She reaches across the table and pats my hand. “I don’t blame you. I thought about doing that myself. Did you tell Ryan you went to Manny’s?”

“Yes.”

“Was he mad?”

“No. He said there was nothing to worry about as far as Manny goes.”

“Thank you,” she says. “I do feel better now.” She glances at her watch, gathers up her purse and shopping bag, and drapes her jacket over her arm. “I’ve taken up enough of your time.” We both stand up and she gives me a hug. “Ryan is right. You are a good friend, Evan. He doesn’t have many.”

She turns and walks away. I watch her move slowly, head down until she disappears into the crowd.

I sit for awhile longer at Cafe Greco, finishing my coffee, having another cigarette, thinking about what Bonnie had told me, deciding it didn’t really matter one way or the other at this point. Ryan had been cleared and the police had returned his car.

I close my eyes for a moment, trying to imagine Ryan’s state of mind as he looked down that embankment. Why didn’t he hike down there and see if McElroy was still alive, or at least call the police? But I knew the answer. It would have been Ryan’s word only, and given their history there was nothing to say Ryan hadn’t forced McElroy off the road to his death.

I surrender my table to a couple looking expectantly at me, coffee mugs in their hands, and hike back to my car, just in time to avoid the glare of a parking meter cop reaching for a pen. I call Andie to tell her I’m in the city. Her phone goes to voice mail, so I leave her a message that I’ll meet her at her place.

At Andie’s I kick off my shoes and stretch out on the couch. I turn on the TV but in a few minutes I nod off until I blink my eyes open and see Andie peering down at me.

“Nice surprise,” she says, kissing me.

“Nice way to wake up.” I pull myself upright and look at her.

“So what brought you in? The seductiveness of your FBI-agent girlfriend?”

I smile. “Well, that too, but I got a call from Ryan Stiles’ mother wanting me to meet with her.”

“She was here in San Francisco? What did she want?”

“Little mini vacation she said, visiting with a friend, but there was more.” I recount our conversation to Andie. She listens, gets up, goes to the kitchen and brings a bottle of water back for both of us.

“Mom’s guilty conscience,” she says.

“You think that’s all it is?”

“She wanted to tell someone and you got elected. It doesn’t really change anything as far as Ryan’s alibi goes. She just wanted to hear it from you that it was okay. What did she say when you told her you’d checked things out at the car wash?”

“She said she didn’t blame me and was glad I did it.”

Andie nods and takes a swig of water. “You think he was telling her the truth?”

“I think she believes he was.”

Andie nods. “If it happened the way Ryan told his mother, there’s nothing he could be charged with except poor judgment, at least not making an anonymous 911 call.”

“And if it didn’t?”

Andie shrugs but I know she doesn’t like it. “We’ll never know, will we?” She stands, takes my hand and pulls me up. “Come on, let’s get some dinner.” She turns as we start toward the door. “Must be hard being the mother of a big movie star.”

“How so?”

“She probably has no idea what all Ryan is into.”

In the morning, I drive back to Monte Rio, thinking about Bonnie’s visit. It was a long way to come to tell me what amounted to very little. Maybe Andie was right. A mother’s guilty conscience, wanting to protect her son, but worried now that she might have withheld something from the Malibu Police. Now, she simply wanted absolution from an objective source.

But Ryan’s actions, if they were as he told his mother, bothered me more than I wanted to admit. Given the same circumstances, it’s always easy to say what you would have done in any situation when you hear about it after the fact. I try to imagine Ryan’s state of mind that night. Angry, driving fast on a dark dangerous curvy road, then panicking when he sees the motorcycle in his mirror, maybe flashing on the paparazzi that chased Princess Diana into that tunnel in Paris.

Then the relief when it’s no longer there, and turning back, looking down that dark embankment, wondering if McElroy was in desperate need of help or dead already. Wondering if it even was McElroy. I visualize him looking at the ripped guardrail, starting down a few steps, risking injury himself, then stopping as Ryan Stiles’ movie-star mindset kicks in. Did he stop then, call out? Weigh his options?

If he called 911 to report the accident, he’d have had to stay until the police arrived, or make the call anonymous. Could his cell phone be traced? Scores of witnesses at the Anchor had seen him shove McElroy, rip the camera from around his neck. It would be too big a coincidence that they’d both ended up on Malibu Canyon Road. Nobody would buy that, and he’d have a lot of explaining to do for the police. The press would speculate that Ryan, barely an hour after the angry scene at the Anchor, had chased McElroy and, in a fit of anger, run him off the road.

Ryan did neither. He simply got back in his car and drove to his parents’ house.

I shake off these thoughts with a reminder to run it all by Andie again, and maybe Coop as well. I pull into the parking lot of the Monte Rio Post Office. I find a yellow card in my box for a package. I present it to the clerk and she hands me a priority mail envelope bulging at the corners. The return address says Ryan Stiles, Inc.

Outside, I open it and find what I’ve been waiting for. Bound together with brass fasteners are one-hundred and ten pages. The title page reads:

There’s a note clipped to the title page from Grant Robbins.

Back home, I take Milton out for a quick walk, then with coffee and cigarettes, take the script out on the deck, feeling a rush of excitement as I begin reading. An hour later, I lay the script aside and light a cigarette. The excitement gone, replaced more by disappointment than anything. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the story seems unremarkable.

A struggling jazz pianist’s former lover, a singer, comes to him for help. Her brother is missing and the police have given up the search. When he reluctantly agrees to help, she turns up dead, and because of their earlier affair, the pianist must first find her brother, then clear himself of the murder. The police don’t believe him. By act two, he’s on the run from them and the singer’s killer, but in the end justice triumphs. The pianist is vindicated and he goes back to his gig with stardom in his future.

The script reads like a collection of crime story clichés, almost as if it was thrown together hurriedly. It’s hardly a vehicle for Ryan Stiles to show what a good actor he is.

Why Grant Robbins couldn’t have shown me this sooner is beyond me. Security? Secrecy? Maybe because it’s so bad they think I would have turned down their offer? I sigh and read over parts of it again, trying to be objective, even making some mental notes about places for the music. I toss it aside finally and take Milton for a long walk along the river.

When I get back, Andie is on the deck, the script in her hand. She looks up and makes a face. “I’ve read about half of it,” she says.