Fridays at Enrico's (42 page)

So why did Stan feel so trapped? It was as if he'd been, upon parole, issued a life. Life, 1 ea., w/ blonde wife. Arguing against himself, he wondered if he hadn't sold out for a pair of big tits and some shiny blonde hair. Despicable thoughts, but he had them. When he'd first been cut loose he loved her. She'd done everything for him. It was all so new, having someone who cared for him, so he sat back and let it happen, devoting his energies to the business of writing. Which was what was so great about Hollywood, where writing was indeed a business. But his string of good luck gave him a sticky feeling. Sure, he'd had a long string of bad luck, so maybe this was just some kind of balance. But no. There was no balance anywhere else in life, he'd observed, so why should there be any in his? Something else was working, something he didn't like. The con factor. How much of his good luck was because he was an ex-convict? Usually it worked against you, but Hollywood wasn't like any other place, and here, for Stan, it seemed to be working quite well. Both Fishkin and Ratto were happy to hang out with an ex-con. Stan could be certain of this because when somebody came into the office or they went to lunch together it would always manage to come out in the conversation. Fishkin and Ratto had been bragging.

At first Stan enjoyed it, but after he'd been violated back into the system he had a lot of time to think, out under the hot sun, bent over hacking at the manzanita. Meanwhile his big book deal fell through and nobody from New York or Hollywood came around, called, wrote, or even admitted he existed. His whole life on the outside boiled down to one person, Carrie. When he came out, there she was, sturdy, beautiful, waiting to take up their lives together. Of course when they heard he was out, when he called Ziggie and said, “Sorry it took me so long to get back to you,” his Hollywood friends flocked around again happily. The deal for
The Fifth Hot Day in a Row
, as they were calling it again, had been dropped only until he got out, and would now be revived.

“You can't promote your book from prison,” Fishkin explained. “And the book, the paperback, foreign sales, and the movie are all tied in together.” Sensible enough, but Stan wasn't far removed from the many hours he'd spent lying on his bunk at night, musing on the collapse of his life and the loss of his new friends.

He tried explaining all this to Charlie, as they sat in the bar at the Troubadour, drinking beer. “I like Bud Fishkin,” he said. “But after I got violated he just vanished. The picture we were working on, from my first book, got turned around, the director went off to do something else, and I guess Fishkin went with him. When I got out and he came back around, I guess I was a little bit cynical.” Charlie stared down into his glass of beer. “You all right?” Stan asked.

Charlie didn't even look at him. “Yeah,” he said.

Surely it was Jaime. Charlie wouldn't admit that there was trouble in paradise. With the so-called perfect marriage, Charlie was ashamed. Oddly, sitting there while loud rock boomed out of the showroom on the other side of the wall, Stan wondered if they'd married the wrong women. Stan had always loved Jaime, in a worshipful way. Now she was a successful novelist, and would make a perfect mate for Stan if he made it in Hollywood. He was right on the edge, if he said so himself. They'd make a great pair. Which would leave Charlie with Carrie. They got along well, cracked wise back and
forth, and Carrie was the kind of pioneer woman Charlie needed to support either his desire to write great literature or to loaf around all the time. It was clear enough that Charlie wouldn't be happy with the movie, if they actually made a movie. Carrie could support him. Stan didn't need a supporting woman. Not anymore.

Was it possible Stan didn't know how to love? He'd been reading up on the subject. He'd be willing to accept the verdict: no love had been put into him, and so none was going to come out. A simple psychological fact. But he didn't really believe it. He'd loved Linda McNeill, maybe just puppy love, but it felt real enough. He'd known plenty of psychopaths, and no matter what the books told him, he wasn't one. It wasn't that he couldn't love, but that he didn't. And so long as he was married to Carrie, he was in no position to go looking. He was incapable of being disloyal to Carrie.

“I'm worried about Carrie,” he said to Charlie, who only snorted and drank off half his beer. Stan doggedly went on. “She's great, but at night we just sit there. We don't have a hell of a lot to say to each other, you know? If she's working over the accounts and I'm reading a book, we're comfortable. Across dinner, we've got nothing to say. It's sort of ugly.”

With all that priming, Stan kept it in. Maybe he was only brooding over his script. The first draft had been awful, Stan had read it because Fishkin was concerned. “Can this guy write?” he'd asked Stan. Looking over the draft, the thick blocks of exposition and five-page dialogues, Stan would have said no. But he knew Charlie, hell, he'd studied creative writing under him. Charlie could do better than this.

“Well?” Fishkin asked.

“You want my opinion?” Stan grinned at Fishkin. “Hire me and find out. I'd be glad to help.” Still, he relented for Charlie's sake and sat in on some of their meetings for free, just so Charlie would have an advocate. The five of them, sitting around Fishkin's office, which was barely larger than Ratto's, Bud's secretary Jane taking notes and the rest just throwing ideas into the middle of the room. Stan found it bizarre that so much time and effort were spent this way, but he couldn't complain. As for Charlie's movie, Stan held
out little hope. Fishkin-Ratto and Charlie were on a collision course. Charlie obviously wanted to make the movie about his own experiences. Fishkin-Ratto wanted something more universal, with more jeopardy.

“I want this movie to be about all wars, especially Vietnam,” Fishkin said, his eyes lighting up. “We've gotta make an
anti
-war movie!”

“Sure,” Charlie said. He sat low in Fishkin's red leather chair, his long legs under the coffee table. “But we can't make Korea Vietnam. They just ain't the same.”

“But the principle—” Fishkin insisted.

“Not the same,” Charlie said stubbornly.

“Look,” Stan said to him, when they were alone in Charlie's cubicle. “You don't have to fight these guys. Just listen to what they have to say and then come back here and write what you please.” Charlie couldn't grasp that the story conferences had nothing to do with the script. “They're just talking ideas,” Stan said. “You take what you take, you leave what you leave.”

“Well, they've got
your
ass tied to a tree,” Charlie said meanly. He was frightened, Stan understood. Hollywood can be frightening. At last one night as they were out getting drunk again, Charlie broke down and admitted that Jaime had thrown him out.

“Oh Jesus,” Stan said. As they got drunker and drunker, Charlie fell apart, pouring out his loud testimony that he was untalented, unlovable, and miserable. Stan confessed the same. A horrible evening. Stan had to drive Charlie to his hotel, and it felt good, the little driving the big guy home, but he was so drunk himself that he had to stay the night.

78.

Carrie Winger was glad Stan had a real friend. Her husband was a complex man and it had broken her heart that she couldn't love him. She'd tried, but
you can't get blood from a turnip. Dazzled by the glamor of the man, when they finally got married she'd expected to find herself deeper in love, but no. This wasn't the man she wanted to have children with. Their marriage settled into politeness and lust. There were no fights, no arguments, Stan trusting her absolutely and letting her run the money end of things. Apart from the Hollywood money. She'd tried to get along with Evarts Ziegler and the others, but it made her angry just to talk to them. They were all Jews, of course, or if not actually Jews, just like them. Carrie had nothing against Jews, in spite of her father's dinner table rantings about Jews and communists and fairies, which just made her laugh. But something about these Hollywood people made her extremely nervous, and she was always glad to hang up the phone, feeling the sweat under her arms.

More and more the candy store occupied her mind and heart. She'd dreamed it up, she'd done all the work and all the sleepless worrying, and the thing was hers. Stan hardly ever came into the place. “I'm not much of a candy man,” he told her with a little smile. “Aren't you glad?”

She was. She'd half-expected that when he got out he'd automatically try to take over the store, being a man. Her old boss had foolishly laughed at her when she told him she was opening a business of her own. But the joke was on him, and for months after she left him he'd called day and night trying to keep from going under. “I can't get good help,” he'd complain desperately over the phone.

“Tough shit,” she didn't say. She was properly sympathetic and advised him as much as she could, but eventually she'd had to make it clear that she was gone and he'd have to get along without her.

Eventually, so would Stan. Once she found a way for them to separate without hurting him too much. Stan was quite sensitive, though he tried not to let it show. He harbored grave doubts, as to whether he was a good person, a good writer, a good lover, a good husband. He was all those things, and she told him so. Yet she didn't love him.

Charlie was a great help. A wonderful man, big but graceful, handsome and at the same time common-looking, with a big wide grin and warm brown eyes. According to Stan, Charlie was really just a big baby in Hollywood
matters, one needing all the help Stan could give him. The two spent a lot of time together, Stan often spending the night at Charlie's place, some hotel. Carrie never worried about Stan stepping out. If he did, she was certain she'd be able to tell right away. Stan was enigmatic to others, but not to her.

The money kept them together. Stan made criminal sums working for the movies. If she was going to open a new store she'd need plenty of money. The new store ought to be in Hollywood or Westwood, she wasn't sure yet, but knew she needed to hunt out the best location. Location was everything. She had to laugh at her dumb luck locating Malibu Candy where she had, between the wealthy customers from Venice and Washington Boulevard. She hadn't known about the junkies when she moved into the area, but they were her first customers, and over time her best, lining up for box after box of exotic chocolates. She'd worked hard and enjoyed dumb luck, and hoped for both again when she opened the second store. If it was a hit, she'd franchise, sell the rights to open Malibu Candy stores anywhere, using her recipes and methods of operation. She couldn't do this without Stan, and she couldn't keep Stan without a little hypocrisy.

On this particular Sunday morning Stan was in town, doing she did not know what. She'd imagined he was with Charlie, but Charlie came trudging up the outside stairs and knocked on the back door.

“Hello, Charlie,” she said, opening the door.

“Is Stan home?” He wore a white tee shirt and jeans, his hands jammed into the back pockets.

“No, but come on in.” Alarm bells went off in her head. Was Charlie here to make a pass at her? She offered him a cup of coffee and the two sat at the breakfast table, sunshine pouring in through the windows. Charlie looked hurt. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“Oh, sure,” he said, and grinned painfully. “I thought Stan would be here.”

“I think he's in town.”

“Gee,” Charlie said.

She wanted to make Charlie smile. “Maybe he's got a girlfriend.”

“Oh, no,” Charlie said. Looking alarmed, he stood. “I shouldn't even be here.”

“Oh, sit down. I was just joking.” That got a half-smile, but Charlie's face relapsed into pain. “Let me fix you some bacon and eggs,” she said.

He said nothing, just sat with his hands folded, staring at his coffee. She got up, cooked some lengths of bacon and scrambled a few eggs. When she put the plates on the table Charlie looked at his and said, “I can't eat.”

Carrie put ketchup on her eggs. “Love trouble,” she said.

Charlie laughed and sighed and then it all poured out. His wife had left him. He was in terrible pain. He'd had no idea how much he loved her until now. He'd neglected her. Taken her for granted. Let love die. And now he was dying of pain. He couldn't believe the pain.

“I understand,” she said, and touched his hand. He had known Stan wouldn't be here. He needed the sympathy of a woman. He probably didn't even realize it. He'd just gotten into his car and driven blindly, ending up here.

“Sit here a minute,” she said. “Try to eat your breakfast. I'll be right back.” She went down to the candy store. Maria was behind the counter. Since it was Sunday nobody was in the back rolling chocolates. There were a couple of customers chewing free samples and looking over the display. She could count on Maria to keep things clean, no chocolate bits on the counter, the floor swept. All looked fine. She went back upstairs. Charlie sat with the breakfast a cold ruin in front of him. He needed to lose a little weight. She pictured taking him for a run on the beach. She liked to run in the early morning. If Charlie moved to the beach, he could run with her. It would ease his pain.

“Charlie,” she heard herself saying. He turned to look at her, his big sad eyes tugging at her heart. She held out her hand and he took it. “Come on,” she said softly, and led him into the bedroom.