“How about some thigh, Melanie?”
Ryan is quickly around the car. “Back off,” he says, pulling off his sunglasses.
“Hey, come on,” the photographer says. “It’s hot, we’ve been out here for over an hour.”
“I said back off.” Melanie gets in and shuts the door as Ryan puts his hand on the photographer’s chest and pushes. The photographer lets go of his camera, letting it dangle around his neck. He backs up, plants his feet, and turns to his comrades.
“You guys see that?” Ryan moves closer. I can see the veins in his neck pulse, his face darken.
I start around the car but the photographer backs up. “Okay, okay.” He grins and puts his hands up. “No harm.”
Ryan stalks back around to the driver’s side. “Get in,” he says to me. He shoves some bills in the valet guy’s hand, guns the engine and we roar out of the parking lot, tires screeching as the photographers click away.
“Fucking vultures!” Ryan yells. He pounds his fist on the steering wheel and looks over at Melanie, almost cowering in the passenger seat, as far away as she can get. “You okay, baby?” She nods and turns her face to the window again.
Back on the coast highway, Ryan drives fast until we pass Topanga Canyon. He suddenly yanks the wheel and turns in front of oncoming traffic into a parking area on the beach side and brakes to a stop. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he says, getting out of the car and stomping down a slight incline toward the beach.
I get out of the car and light a cigarette and walk around to the passenger side. Melanie lowers the window and looks at me. “You okay?” I ask her.
She nods, her eyes following Ryan’s trek down the beach. We can see him now, standing by the water. “He…he just gets like this sometimes.” She glances at the beach then back at me. “Can I have one of those?”
I offer her a cigarette and light her up. She leans out the window, careful to blow the exhaled smoke away from the car.
“Why go out someplace he knows there will be photographers?”
She shrugs. “He likes the rush, being recognized, being photographed, but he hates it too. It’s a trap. At first you want the exposure, then when you get too much—and, well you saw. He’s very protective of me.”
“Do you need protecting?”
She gazes at me for a long moment. “No,” she says, “not usually.”
I’m not entirely sure what she means, but I don’t press it. We both watch Ryan turn and head back toward the car. Melanie hands me her cigarette and I crush both of them into the dirt. She digs in her purse for a mint and pops one in her mouth as Ryan jogs up the rise, all smiles now. “Sorry, just had to clear my head,” he says. “Hey, how about you drive?”
I hesitate for a moment, glance at Melanie. “Sure.”
Ryan gets in the back seat. “Back here, baby,” he says to Melanie.
I turn the car around, wait for a break in traffic and get back on the highway to head for Trancas. I glance once in the rearview mirror. Ryan is leaning back against the seat, his eyes closed, his arm around Melanie.
Ah, lunch with a movie star.
“Hold your left hand on the keys,” I tell Ryan Stiles. “Spread your fingers wider.”
“Yeah, yeah I know,” he says. I can hear the irritation in his voice. I know exactly what he’s feeling. We’ve been working for over an hour and he’s tiring. I can see beads of perspiration on his forehead. He stops and massages his left forearm. “I can really feel it.”
“Good, you should. You’re using muscles you didn’t know you have.” I’d showed him some fingering, how to play a C scale with his right hand. Up and down, all white notes, making it easy. He was getting that but he continually pulled his left hand off the keyboard.
“Let me show you again.” He gets up and stands behind me as I sit down. “Like this.” I play a three-note chord with my left, and run up and down the keys with my right, alternating the order. “See? Chord left, scale right.”
Ryan flops down in a chair next to the piano. “Jesus, fight scenes are easier than this.”
I laugh. “You’ll get it. Just takes time and practice. I’ll write out some exercises for you.”
I put my left hand on the keyboard again and play a three-note C chord but with a different kind of voicing. “Now watch my hand.” Barely moving my fingers, I change the voicing to a F chord then a G chord then back to the original position for the C chord. “That’s a basic blues progression.” I do it again and this time play corresponding scales with my right hand each time I change the position of my left hand. “See what I’m doing?”
Ryan leans forward, nodding, watching closely. “I think so.”
I get up. “Okay, you try it.”
He’s awkward at first, fumbling, looking at the keyboard, but gradually the transition and coordination between his hands starts to get better. I watch him for a minute or two, see that he’s got it. “Okay, practice that for awhile. I’m going outside for a smoke.”
I leave him to it and go out by the pool. There’s a strong wind coming off the ocean, churning up the surf, whipping up little clouds of sand. Emillio opens the sliding glass door and comes out with a pitcher of orange juice and two glasses and sets them on the table. I nod my thanks and watch him stare out at the ocean.
“You’re being very patient with him,” he says. “You must be a good teacher.”
“First time for me.” We both listen for a moment as Ryan’s efforts filter out to the pool. “He’s trying. It’s all new for him.”
“So is a patient teacher.” He turns and goes back inside.
I hadn’t been sure what to expect with Ryan Stiles. Even a major star has to take direction, suggestions on how to do a scene, timing, shaping the dialogue. But this was different. Ryan was a novice, learning a totally new skill. I’m not a movie director, but I can play the piano and Ryan, at least so far, seems to accept the childlike instructions without reservation.
I finish my cigarette and look up as he joins me. He pours himself a glass of orange juice and drops in a chair next to me. “My arm is so fucking sore,” he says. “Does it go away eventually?”
I laugh. “Yeah, in about ten years.”
He nods and downs half the juice. “How about your hand. You had some kind of accident, didn’t you?”
I look at him and automatically flex the fingers of my right hand. “You know about that too?”
He shrugs. “Grant did a lot of research.”
I nod. Sometimes I still wake up in a sweat, remembering the sirens, the lights, the cool asphalt of the Coast Highway under me, and later, the fingerless latex glove, squeezing the rubber ball as daily rehab. “Yeah, car accident on the Coast highway. Cut some tendons in my wrist. Took a lot of rehab. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to play again. Took a long time.”
“Jesus,” Ryan says. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”
“It’s okay now. Hardly bothers me.”
We sip the orange juice and gaze out at the surf. “Listen, something I want to talk to you about.”
“Sure. What’s on your mind?”
“It’s about yesterday, at the restaurant. I want to apologize. I was out of line.”
“No need,” I say.
He puts up his hand. “Yes there is.” He takes a deep breath. “I’ve got a bit of a temper, as you may have heard.” He shrugs and looks away. “Sometimes it gets the best of me, especially if it’s about Melanie.”
“The photographer was out of line too. Melanie was almost in the car.”
“Yeah, he was, trying to get a crotch shot. I mean, what would you have done if that had been Andie?”
I shrug and smile. “Don’t forget Andie is an FBI agent. She would have probably pulled her gun.” I pause, thinking for a moment. “Maybe I would have reacted the same way, but you have to know these guys make their living on photos of people like you and Melanie. That doesn’t make it right but that’s the way it is, right?”
Ryan nods and grips the glass tighter. “Yeah I know, all too well, but sometimes…” His voice trails off. “There’s something else too.” He looks at me. “This is just between you and me, okay?”
“Okay.”
He takes another deep breath. “Melanie wants a baby.”
I don’t answer for a moment, not sure what he wants me to say, surprised that he’s confiding in me like this. “And that’s a problem for you.”
“Fuck, I don’t know, man. I love Melanie. She’s a sweet girl, but I just don’t know if I’m ready for that yet. She’s always reminding me about all these couples that aren’t married and having babies.”
“How long have you been together?”
“Little over two years. We met on the set of a movie I was doing. She had a tiny part.”
“Well, maybe you just need more time. You should be sure.”
I think about Andie and me. She doesn’t want kids, and we’re still getting used to being together as much as we are. We have our own places. I love my Monte Rio getaway, and Andie keeps her apartment in San Francisco to be close to the bureau office. Moving in together isn’t such a remote idea anymore. It’s just a question of where. We both know that, but anything beyond sharing living space I haven’t thought about.
Ryan finishes off the rest of his juice and stands up. “Well, thanks for listening.” He watches me stub out my cigarette. “Dude, you have to give those up.”
“Go practice some more. I’ll be in soon.”
He grins and salutes. “Yes, sir.”
We go for the rest of the morning then break for lunch. Ryan goes to his room and I decide to take a long walk on the beach. It almost feels like I’m back in Venice. When I look up, I see I’m near the shopping mall with Trancas Market. I cross the highway and go inside for a cold drink then check out some of the other nearby shops. At a video rental store I browse through some movies and find a few music DVDs.
I take them to the counter. The clerk, a young kid in jeans, tee shirt, and green streaks in his dark hair looks up and asks for my video club card. “This isn’t local,” he says.
“Right. I’m staying with some friends on Broad Beach.” I wonder for a moment if I should tell him where I’m staying, but he’d never believe it if I said Ryan Stiles.
“I’ll need a credit card then,” he says. “Sorry, store policy.”
I hand over my American Express. He puts everything in a bag and returns my card. Outside, I decide to walk back along Broad Beach Road rather than on the beach. About halfway to the house, I notice a dark green van slowly trailing behind me. I turn and look, waiting for it to pass, but it slows. I stop then, waiting as it pulls up alongside me.
“Can I help you?” I lean toward the passenger side window. I see a couple of cameras and a large bag on the floor. The driver is maybe thirty, with longish hair, wearing dark glasses.
He smiles. “Just thought you might want a ride.”
“No thanks. I’m fine.” I step back and turn away but he doesn’t move on.
“You’re Evan Horne, the piano player, aren’t you? ”
“What if I am?”
“Staying with Ryan Stiles? You just friends or are you working on something?”
“Not really your business, is it?”
He takes off the glasses. “C’mon, man. I’m looking for a story. Famous, well not-so-famous jazz pianist staying with Ryan Stiles? Something is up. You working on something with him?”
“Can’t help you,” I say. “Why don’t you ask him?”
He puts his glasses back on. “I would if I could get to him.” He leans toward me. “There’s some nice money in it for you.”
“We’re done.” I turn and walk away. I listen for the van and hear him throw it in gear. “Thanks,” he yells and makes a fast U-turn.
Welcome to Malibu.
I cut through a public access path that leads back to the beach. At the house, Ryan and Melanie are lounging by the pool. Ryan is stretched out on a chaise lounge. Melanie is flipping through a magazine with Angelina Jolie on the cover. When I tell Ryan about the guy in the van, he sits up and takes off his sunglasses and glares. “Sonofabitch. What’d you tell him?”
“That I couldn’t help him. Not his business.”
“You’re sure.”
I look at Ryan for a moment.
“Of course he’s sure,” Melanie says, sitting up straighter.
Ryan glares at Melanie for a moment, then leans back. “I’m sorry, I just get paranoid over this shit.”
I feel Melanie’s eyes on me as I sit down and light a cigarette. “Look, Ryan, maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all. We can just forget the whole thing if you want.”
“No, no, it’s fine really. I just get spooked with these guys, always trying to get to me.”
“I understand, but you have to trust me. I’m working for you.”
“I know, I know.”
“Well then act like it,” Melanie says, her outburst surprising me.
Ryan turns toward her. “If I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”
She throws down the magazine, gets up, and stomps away.
Ryan plops back on the chaise and shakes his head. “Great, now I’ve pissed her off too.”
I watch him for a moment, trying to imagine what it would be like to be him. Stalked wherever he went by photographers, his privacy constantly invaded, unable to go anywhere without exposing himself to scrutiny. The more famous he became, the less free he was. And these days, anybody with a cell phone camera could catch him in an off moment in an unfavorable light.
As Grant Robbins said, Ryan Stiles was young, rich, famous, ambitious, with a beautiful girlfriend, a big expensive home, but he was paying the price. And the fame, being constantly in the public eye, was getting to him. He seemed always on edge, never really relaxed. Who could he trust? Grant Robbins? Melanie? There were probably others I wasn’t aware of. As the newest, temporary member of the inner circle, I could understand his paranoia. For Ryan Stiles, anonymity is long gone.
He sits up again and leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “What did this guy in the van look like?”
I describe the van and the driver. “I noticed some cameras on the floor.”
Ryan nods. “Yeah I think I know the guy. He freelances for some of the trade mags. They all want a story.”
I try to kid him out of this dark mood. “Well, you are
the
Ryan Stiles.”
He manages a smile. “Yeah, I am aren’t I?” He looks at me closely. “It doesn’t impress you at, all does it?”
“Oh, I’m impressed. I’ve even seen a couple of your movies.”
“Which ones?”
“The terrorist one. Lots of car chases, explosions, special effects.”
“And?”
“It was okay.”
“Okay? You know how much that movie grossed? I topped the charts for five weeks.”
“Is that what it’s all about? Money?”
He nods. “It’s how you get to make more movies.” He looks away for a moment. “What was the other one?”
“
Too Late to Die.
You played a district attorney.”
“And that one?”
“I liked it. You were good.”
“It was a flop. Minimal release, almost went straight to video.”
“Does that matter?”
“That’s what I like about you. Straight ahead, no bullshit, just play the piano.”
I shrug. “What can I say? Not many jazz musicians are really famous. Miles, Dave Brubeck, Wynton Marsalis. There aren’t many known to the general public.”
I pull my chair closer. “Let me tell you a story about Bill Evans. He was famous in the jazz world, but nothing like movie star fame. He was in Los Angeles once for a gig and later stopped by this bar in his hotel. It was noisy and crowded but not a single person recognized him. He sat at the bar, listening to this young solo piano player who was being ignored by everybody. The guy almost fell off the bench when he turned and saw Bill Evans.
“He went over and introduced himself and they talked for a few minutes. Evans was pleased, flattered that the young pianist recognized him, but you know what Evans said?”
“What?” Ryan was hanging on every word now.
“He said sometimes he thought it would be better to be like that pianist. Just do the gig, get your money, go home. No dealing with record companies, interviews, just play the piano. The young pianist was stunned, then he asked Evans if he’d like to play a couple of tunes. To his surprise, Evans said yes. He sat down and still nobody recognized him. Head down like always, playing one of his own songs, ‘Waltz for Debby’ in that crowded noisy bar, and not a single person said, hey, isn’t that Bill Evans?”
Evans finished and came back to the pianist. He looked around the noisy, crowded room and said, ‘You know what, maybe not.’”
Ryan looks puzzled for a moment, trying to put it together, then finally does, and smiles big. “No shit.” He gets up and slaps me on the shoulder. “Thanks, man.” He starts to walk away, then turns back. “You think that story is true?”
“I know it is.”
“How do you know?”
“I was the young pianist.”