I’m Losing You (30 page)

“Why don't you put me in one of your pictures?”

“I was going to.”

“Bullshitter.”

“My movie fell apart.”

“Such a
bullshitter
! I can't
believe
this—
you
, like everybody else!”

“How am I a bullshitter, Jabba?”

“You're not a producer, you're not an
anything
—”

“Tell me how I'm a bullshitter, you little punk!”

“All right—I'm leaving.” She rose but he stopped her.

“Give me the decency of a response. I
had
a picture—and that's no bullshit. There was a nice part—”

“Oh,
fuck
you,” she said wearily, sitting back down.

“Would you lower your voice?”

“You're sad, you know it? Mama!” she shouted, as two or three heads turned. “Mama, he's gonna put me in pictures!”

The veins in his temples swelled like candelabra. “You want me to prove it?”

“Is that Burt Reynolds?” she asked of no one in particular as a nondescript man swept through the door. “That's not Burt Reynolds.
Every
body's a bullshitter—”

“Do you think I lie, Jabba?”

“No. You just bullshit.”

“I go out on a limb for you.”

“Oh right. Put your life right on the line.”

“I'll show you. Then you'll think twice about the kind of crap that comes from your mouth.”

He paid the check and Jabba said she just wanted to go home. Bernie took her arm and steered her across the street to Cedars. He told her Obie Mall was the star of his picture and he'd been struggling to find a replacement. Jabba only started to believe him when they reached the room. His heart was pounding, and he searched his pockets for stray tranquilizers—nothing. He made her wait in the hall while he ducked in to make sure Edith-Esther wasn't there. The private nurse smiled and said he'd just missed her. The nurse toweled the Big Star's chin and said, “Well, who's the popular girl? Mr. Bernie's back to see you, but he didn't bring a cake.” She left the three of them alone.

“Oh my God,” said Jabba. “It
is
, it's
her
.”

Bernie sat in the nurse's chair and held Obie's hand. “It's okay,”
he said as the agitated Big Star's eyes bugged and darted about. “It's all right, your mama will be back.”

Jabba took in the catheter bag and said, “It's
piss
.” She'd never seen a hospital room this big—crammed with flowers, a humidifier, a “wave” machine, VCR, giant New Age crystals and all kinds of expensive-looking knick-knacky things. There was a whole table filled with nothing but framed photos from better days: Obie and Clinton, Obie and Courtney, Obie and Travolta. R.E.M. played softly on a CD boombox.

“Can she hear me?”

“Of course she can.”

Oberon made clicking noises from her throat as Jabba moved closer. She'd lost weight since the stroke; an elegant satin “healing” cord—gift from Meg Ryan—fell loosely around a tiny, protuberant wrist.

“You're a great actress,” Jabba said, chapped lips brushing the ear of the spasmodic icon. Bernie stood and smiled nervously at the nurse as she re-entered. “I think maybe we'll go,” he said. “She seems tired.”

“Hurry and get well,” Jabba whispered as the nurse took over. “I want to work with you someday. That would be my greatest honor in life.”

Zev Turtletaub

Zev and the boys out by the pool, talking cock. Alfred the Steward long since airborne, black box and portable flotation device intact. There's Yon Koster, the trainer who wrested muscle from the liposuctioned abs and flabby arms of a classic endomorph: Zev, with that unwieldy, oddly over-developed, dressed-for-success praying mantis thorax, like Jeremy Irons's in the third
Die Hard
. There's Moe Trusskopf and friend, one far-out looking “Lancelot,” whose true name—Rod Whalen—suggests (sez Moe) an honest-to-God nom de porn.

“You never told us about Flyboy,” said Moe.

“Stout, dark and uncut.”

“Like a Guinness.”

“On the nose.”

“You mean the head.”

“MTV should do an ‘Uncut.'”

“First, Seal, then Tom Petty.”

“Seal'd with a kiss.”

“Flyboy had about the biggest hole I have
ever
seen. You could drive a Bronco through that urethra.”

“An attractive image.”

“A slow-speed chase to the bladder.”

“Who's got the biggest straight dick?”

“Oh no!” Moe posed like Munch's
Scream
. “Not
this
again.”

“Jimmy Woods.”

“It isn't straight, it's crooked.”

“How would you know?”

“Into the Woods!”

“Oh please. No one's ever
seen
Jimmy Woods's cock. It's like the Abominable Snowman.”

“The Abominable Blow Job.”

“Lisa Marie Presley in action.”

“Paula Abdul.”

“Celine Dion.”

“They say Jim Woods is the Milton Berle of our time.”

“He sleeps standing up ‘cause it's like a kickstand.”

“What about Brad Pitt?”

“Didst thou dare invoke Princess Tiny Meat?”

Everybody laughs as Douglas brings hamburgers.

“It
can't
be huge, he'd be too perfect.”

“Tom Cruise.”

“Oh yes. And L. Ron Hubbard's another one.”

“Birds of a feather…”

“
Fock
together.”

“They say Hubbard was hung like David Koresh.”

“What about Timothy McVeigh?”

“No! Alfred Mullah.”

“Who's Alfred Mullah.”

“You know—the federal building.”

“
Alfred P. Murrah!
” Howling with glee.

“Isn't that it? The building that blew up?”

“All those militia guys are way hung.”

“What about Cat Basquiat?”

“I don't talk about my clients.”

“Uncut?”

“Definitely unplugged.”

“We can remedy that.”

“The girl can't help it.”

“There's an executive at Buena Vista with a tiny penis. We're talking nub. He scores with chicks who want to get fucked in the ass but were always afraid. It's like a big toe going in.”

“You are so full of shit.”

“Uh, no, the toe is.”

More laughter as the boys dig into burgers. Moe asks Douglas if there's ice cream. Moe wants a sundae, then asks for a malted. Asks about available sherbets, hankering for a peristaltic treat. Something easy to upchuck. Would he still like the sundae? Zev says forget it. Alec Baldwin calls from Amagansett and Zev takes it inside.

“As for your nubby Buena Vista friend,” sez Moe, “some say the ass is half-empty, others say it's half-full.”

Guffaws as Zev enters the house. Taj has arrived from the office. Zev motions him into the library, then picks up.

“Hello there.”

“Hiya, Zev.”

“You are
such
a good boy to call me back on your holiday.”

“The career never sleeps. Desperately seeking material.”

Zev snaps fingers at his assistant, motioning him to come near. “Caught you on the Stern show.”

“Oh yeah.”

“You were fucking hilarious.”

“Howard makes it easy.”

“He becomes your
straight
man. I can't believe it—Howard Stern, a fucking straight man! Helluva trick.”

“I
feel
like a trick. My agent said you had some brilliant project.”

Zev, sitting now, puts a hand on the helper's ass. Taj backs away, but the producer pulls him back by his A/X belt, grimacing with anger. Zev spins him around and Taj stands still for the remainder of the call, buttocks in front of Zev's face.

“I've never been more excited. This is Academy Award time, Alec, I'm serious.”

“You're giving me a boner.”

“It's my AIDS movie. I know that sounds crass.”

“Is there a script?”

“I'm talking to Mamet and Zaillian. And, would you believe, Arthur Miller.”

“The lightweights.”

“I'll make this brief, ‘cause I don't want to hector you.”

“Hector away. You know, you should
get
Hector—Babenco.”

“I love Hector but he's erratic. Here's the premise, okay? Well, not the premise—premise, but the context:
If you have AIDS and need cash, you can sell your life insurance and collect the money upfront
.” A thumb bisects Taj's thigh, stopping at the back of the knee.

“Your office faxed me the article.”

“Did you have a chance to read it?”

“Very dark—but
very
interesting.”

“You know, I always wanted to do
A Face in the Crowd
with you but instead of the music thing, I wanted to set it in Werner Erhard–land.”

“I love that. I never knew you wanted to do that.”

“For
years
. You were gonna be this con who scams the human potential movement—a dysfunctional
Music Man
! But one day I woke up and the whole ‘inner child thing' felt passé—”

“Tell that to my wife.”

“And how is the most gorgeous woman on earth?”

“She's great. So the character's one of these insurance guys.”

“‘Viatical settlement advocate'—that's what they call themselves. He's down-and-out. Bad karma, like Newman in
The Verdict
.”

“I loved
The Verdict
. Where does it go?”

Cradling the phone on his shoulder, Zev puts both hands on Taj's ass, gently spreading cheeks beneath loose fabric. “He gets involved with an activist, a woman who's HIV. Sandra Bullock.”

“Your sister's an activist.”

“Yeah, Aubrey.”

“How's she doing?”

“Fine. Well. Tough lady.”

“I saw her at the Hard Rock thing in New York. She looked great.”

“This is my gift to her.”

“I'd love to work with Sandra. She's terrific.”

“Together, you're
perfect
. There's a medical conspiracy thing going
on, like in
The Fugitive
, only a thousand times subtler. I thought of this because I asked a hemophiliac how he got AIDS and he said, ‘I got fucked in the ass by seven major drug companies, honey!'”

“That's so great.”

“I'm really waiting until we get the writer on board, Alec. I just wanted to feel you out, because to me the character is phenomenal, a classic, towering. It's cosmic Elmer Gantry. Would this sort of thing appeal to you, Alec? Because I can't see anyone but you, you'd be brilliant. I just need to know if this kind of guy—a hustler, a parasite who slowly, painfully has his eyes opened to human suffering and comes out from the thing…
transcendent
—I just need an indication it's an arena you might like to explore.” Zev slides a finger down the pallid crack and Taj jerks away. The producer contemptuously shoves the assistant toward the desk, where he nonchalantly fiddles with some papers.

“Absolutely. But the article…the article isn't based on a book—”

“No. The article is an article. What I want to do is graft that information onto the superstructure of
Dead Souls
, an extraordinary nineteenth-century Russian novel—”

“Right, I know. Tolstoy?”

“Nikolai Gogol. But you win the literary consolation prize.”

“Howard Stern would have known.”

“Howard Stern would think it was Stephen King. Now, when am I gonna see you? When are you coming to L.A.?”

“Jesus, never, I hope. I'm kidding. Probably three weeks.”

“Do you want me to send the book, with coverage?”

“What's the coverage,” he laughed. “Cliffs Notes?”

“We broke it down. But I don't want to overwhelm you.”

“I've been known to dip into a tome or two. I'm halfway through the new Roth—
Operation Shylock
. Fucking fantastic.”

“You'll have book and coverage tomorrow…”

“Bell, Book and Coverage.”

“…and if you have
any
thoughts or questions, call me, Alec, anytime, day or night. Okay?”

“You are the Monsignor.”

“And thank you for your patience.”

“Thank you for your interest. I'm always flattered, Zev.”

“You flatter
me
. It's time we did something together.”

“
I flatter you, you flatter me
,” he sang, while Zev laughed. “
We both flat-ter too ea-si-ly
—”

“Goodbye, you nut.”

“
Too ea-si-ly to let it show
…”

“Is this a concert?”

“Later, Zev.”

“My love to Kimberly.”

Zev hung up, rubbing his crotch as he ogled his minion. “Hel-
lo
. Anyone
home
? Ground control to Major Taj!”

“I…I haven't done the last fifty pages—of
Dead Souls
.”

“Why not?”

“I had—so much other work.”

“Come here, silly wabbit.”

“Please…”

“I won't bite. I might suck, but I won't bite.”

He came closer. Zev grabbed the hips and reeled him in.

“Please don't.”

“Finish the coverage,” he said, fumbling with the belt. “I really want to know how the thing ends.” Zev unbuttoned the fly, pulling the pants down with the aloofness of a tailor—or sailor. “It doesn't seem to be heading toward a resolution. There's an essay in the back by the guy who wrote
Lolita
. Maybe you could cover that too.”

Taj felt like a child—he wanted to urinate as the underwear shimmied down, hammocking at knees. Bloodless lips fastened around him and the assistant lost balance. Zev's hands clapped around his rear, steadying. Taj toughed it out, hardening in the hothouse mouth, watching the smooth skull, noting moles, veins and fissures from afar like the book of aerial shots he flipped through at Super Crown:
Above Los Angeles.