Authors: Joe Keenan
Monty smiled. “Oh, I do hope he’ll pay
some
attention.” Though frank come-ons from gentlemen over sixty usually send an anxious shiver up the Cavanaugh vertebrae, Monty’s
manner was so friendly, so cheerfully straightforward that my first impulse was to flirt back, as though decorum demanded
it. It was my first glimpse of his singular knack for making lechery seem charming.
“Ah, there you are!” he said to the fantasy hiker who’d finally joined our little circle. Seeing him up close I couldn’t help
noting his drowsy eyes—was he stoned?—the inch of bare midriff between his shirt and shorts, and the two beepers adorning
his belt.
“Allow me,” said Monty with wry formality, “to present the latest enrollee in the Monty Malenfant Academy of Dramatic Arts
—Glen DeWitt, Mr. Cody Masters.”
“Hey,” said Cody, flashing his palm in lieu of an actual handshake, for which, I sensed, I’d have been charged.
“My brother’s one of Hollywood’s most sought-after acting coaches,” explained Lily.
“I see.”
“He takes very few students,” she added proudly, “and only one at a time. Though I recall once there were two.”
“Ah.”
“He was an actor himself, you know. As a child. He was a big star before any of us were.”
“No shit?” inquired his dilated pupil.
“Guilty as charged. Have you by chance,” he asked me, “seen any of my pictures?”
“I’m not sure,” I said diplomatically. “Possibly.”
“Oh, you’d remember if you had. My pictures, like Lily’s, haunt the memory long after the initial trauma has passed. Counseling
is often required.”
“Did you have a good class, Mr. Masters?” asked Lily.
“Yeah, great,” smirked Cody, gamely throwing himself into the charade. “We did something by, uh, Shakespeare and also, um...”
His knowledge of playwrights depleted, he let out a stoned giggle and his beeper went off.
“Can I use your phone on my way out?”
“Of course. And splendid work today. Your Malvolio was wonderfully nuanced, but next time you might imbue your Trigorin with
a touch more world-weary insouciance.”
Cody emitted a baffled snigger and shook his head.
“Man, you are too much.”
“I am tempted to return the compliment. Good day, Cody.”
He prowled out through the dining room, passing the baleful Louise, who pointedly positioned herself between him and a table
covered in easily pocketable tchotchkes. At least I now understood the fish eye I’d gotten when she’d taken me for a fresh
applicant to Monty’s academy. I caught Monty’s eye and cocked an eyebrow as though to inquire just how recently he felt the
turnip truck and I had parted company. His response was a droll parody of innocence, the eyes cast casually skyward, the lips
whistling a little tune, and I found myself giggling as helplessly as Cody had.
“I share your mirth, Mr. DeWitt,” said Lily. “Really, Monty! I know you sometimes accept a student just because he’s good-looking
but I don’t think you’ll
ever
make an actor of that one.”
“You see no potential?”
“His diction! Quite hopeless.”
“I have an exercise to correct that. It’s loosely inspired by Demosthenes.
Very
loosely.”
“My brother’s problem,” said Lily, “is that he’s too nice to tell people when they have no talent. He means well but if I
were him I’d be ashamed to take their money.”
“On that score, I assure you, I feel no guilt whatsoever. Can you join us for lunch, Mr. DeWitt?”
I feared that further conversation might expose my limited acquaintance with Lily’s oeuvre, besides which I was bursting to
report my victory to Stephen. I told them that while nothing would give me greater pleasure, I had a pressing appointment
for which I had to leave shortly.
The question of my fee arose. I knew things could get sticky if her publisher tried to pay me, necessitating tax forms and
such for the nonexistent Glen, so I suggested we keep our arrangement informal for now. After all, I could hardly expect a
woman of Lily’s stature to enter into a contract with me until I’d proven my mettle. Once we were, say, a few chapters in,
we could take the matter up again and decide on a reasonable fee. Lily agreed and I rose and thanked her again for entrusting
me with her story.
“Please! It’s I who am grateful to you. But I must warn you,” she added darkly, “that it will take more than talent to write
this book. It will take courage!”
“Oh?”
“You don’t know what powerful forces are working against us.”
“Who?”
“My sister for one. She’s absolutely panicked about this —as well she should be. There are quite a few things she doesn’t
want the world to know about her — shameful things. It will pain me to tell them, but what can I do? Sugarcoat the truth?
I think not!”
“And of course,” added Monty, “there’s Stephen and his lovely goatee, Gina —”
“I’d hardly call her a goat, Monty. She’s quite pretty in her way.”
“I said ‘goatee.’ ”
“Sorry?”
“As in ‘beard.’ ”
“She hasn’t got a beard.”
“How many of those have you had, love?”
“You mean Stephen’s gay?” I exclaimed, sounding more overjoyed than I’d meant to.
“Heel, boy. Yes, he is. Or, at any rate, was. He lived with us through much of his teens while Mother was off on location
and at that time—”
“Oh —
beard!
”
“— he was, I assure you, gayer than a Mardi Gras float. When magazines from my private collection went missing, they could
invariably be found under the guest room mattress.”
“And that day in the pool house—!”
“With the tennis coach!”
“
So
embarrassing!”
“And you’re putting all this in the book?” I asked, shocked.
“Well, it’s hardly a secret,” said Lily, freshening her drink. “All
my
friends have known he’s gay for years.”
“That’s because you tell them, dear.”
“Besides,” added Lily, “how can I possibly convey Diana’s failings as a mother without describing her monstrous insensitivity
to Stephen when she found out? Couldn’t deal with it at all. She was horribly mean to him whereas we accepted him just as
he was. She had her way in the end of course. It’s because of her that he’s living a lie today.”
“Well, that,” allowed Monty, “and the thirty million a picture. So I doubt he and Gina are turning cartwheels over this book,
to say nothing of that human pit bull they’ve put on retainer.”
“Sonia Powers!” scowled Lily, washing the name off her tongue with a hefty swig. “The rude cow! Calls me every day!”
“Their publicist,” explained Monty. “She guards like a mother tigress the padlock on Stephen’s closet—a curious vocation for
a woman well known to be the town’s leading vaginavore.”
“Let her try to stop us!” said Lily defiantly. “Our voices will not be stilled!”
“So,” said Monty, clapping my shoulder, “are you with us, Glen? You’ll stand side by side with us against the enemies of truth?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“You’ll scoff at their threats and sneer at their bribes?”
“I’m working for you, not them,” I replied less than accurately.
“That’s the spirit!” cried Lily. And with that, she rose and showed me to the door, warning me as she did to be discreet about
my assignment, discussing it only with those whose trustworthiness was beyond question.
“You know. Like my manager, Lou.”
M
Y FEELINGS AS
I drove back to the Chateau were mixed. On the one hand I was thrilled I’d gotten the job and elated to have found that Stephen
was not the rumor-plagued straight boy his handlers so vehemently proclaimed him but the genuine man-loving article. At the
same time I was unsettled to find that Lily and Monty did not seem at all like the base fends their family and Sonia had made
them out to be.
Readers of my earlier histories will recall that on my one previous foray into home infiltration my victims had possessed
the good grace to be so odious that any backstabbing mole in their employ could consider it a privilege to betray them. But
Lily, while undeniably gaga, seemed rather sweet—sweeter certainly than her imperious sister— and Monty was downright delightful.
The thought that I’d signed on to be the viper in their midst pained me. To avoid dwelling on it, I turned my thoughts to
Stephen.
There is, of course, no more effective qualm suppressant than lust. By the time I’d passed an agreeable five minutes imagining
how pleased Stephen would be with me and another five viewing a mental slide show of his astonishing face, shoulders, and
thighs, my misgivings had seeped away like bathwater from the heart-shaped tub we shared in my reverie. Hadn’t Sonia warned
me not to believe anything Lily or Monty said? So they’d seemed nice — what of it! Was this not a world in which the low and
cunning could, as the bard put it, smile and smile and be a villain? The fading voice of my conscience muttered, “Well, you’re
certainly proving
that
, dear.”
“Fuck you!” I replied, “Stephen’s nipples!” and it shut up.
W
HEN
I
RETURNED TO
the Chateau I was so eager to report my triumph to Stephen that I bypassed the sluggish elevator and sprinted up the four
flights to my room, a pointless exertion, as it struck me on entering that I hadn’t a clue what Stephen’s phone number was.
I mulled my options and realized I had no choice but to call the abominable Sonia and beg her assistance.
“You think I give that number out?” she asked, sneering audibly.
“Then he can call me. I’m at the Chateau Marmont.”
“Look, precious, Stephen’s a busy man. Just tell me what’s up and I’ll pass it along to him.”
I literally recoiled at this suggestion, yanking the phone from my ear and glaring at the receiver. When wooing a fair prince
one prefers of course to present all love offerings in person, not hand them off to the troll at the drawbridge. Fortunately
this was one of those days when the Cavanaugh brain was firing on all cylinders and I grasped immediately that Sonia herself
had provided me the grounds on which to resist this demand.
“It seems to me I just signed a document forbidding me to divulge confidential information to anyone outside Stephen’s immediate
family.”
“I’m
employed
by Stephen.”
“So’s his gardener and I’m not telling him.”
Sonia did not like this line of reasoning one bit. She thundered, threatened, and pelted me with epithets of which “snotty
little fag” was by far the gentlest. Love had made me bold though, and I held my ground. Repeating that I would report to
Stephen and only Stephen, I hung up on her. Forty minutes later my phone rang and I pounced on it like a coyote on a kitten.
“Philip?”
“Stephen!”
“Boy,” he said with a musical laugh, “you sure pissed Sonia off!”
“There are harder things to do in this world.”
“I know she can be a little hard to take.”
Be wry, I admonished myself. Be bland. Think David Niven.
“Nonsense. I find her delightful in a snarling, feral sort of way. Oh, before I forget, you’re now talking to Lily Malenfant’s
official biographer.”
Awed silence.
“You’re
in?
”
“Yuh-huh.”
“Already?”
“Yes. Or rather, Glen is.”
“Glen?”
“I felt it wise to use a pseudonym. Can’t have the old dear getting wind that I’m also writing a movie for you guys, can we?”
Stephen’s response was another gratifying burst of laughter.
“Man, I’ve played a spy on screen but you, you’re the real thing.”
Having never before heard a sexy megastar compare me favorably to his dashing signature role, I lost all grip on my suavity
and giggled like a chorus boy being tickled by Bernadette Peters. Stephen, tactfully ignoring this, asked, a bit too casually,
if Lily had offered any preview of what she planned to say about her nearest and dearest.
“Well—!” I began, prepared to reveal all, then realized at once what a serious tactical blunder this would be. If you’re smitten
with a secretly gay film star and eager to establish a more intimate rapport, is this how you tell him his aunt’s planning
to out him? Over the phone? When you can’t even see his face? Of course not. When the news is this juicy you want to save
it until you’re alone with him in some appropriately snug setting. Only then do you release the cat from the bag, minutely
scrutinizing his face while composing your own into a compassionate and receptive mien that says, “Tell Philip. He can be
trusted.”
“Well, what?” he asked.
“Well, she
hinted
like crazy. ‘Bombshells’ is the word she kept using. But nothing specific. And I didn’t want to press her. She’d just got
through bitching about how the first ghostwriter she’d interviewed was more interested in you people than her. I thought if
I dwelled on you too much I’d piss her off and lose the job.”
“You did the right thing,” he said, sounding nonetheless disappointed. It occurred to me that I did have at least a few tidbits
I could serve up to keep the conversation lively.
“Boy, Lily sure likes her cocktails.”
“Tell me.”
“Almost as much as Monty likes his hustlers.”
“Excuse me?”
“When I got there he was entertaining one in the pool house.”
“No!”
Surprise had lowered his guard and he said this in a voice that was thrilled, gossipy, and—dear diary!—very gay.
“Scout’s honor. And this before lunch, mind you.”
“You’re sure it was a hustler?”
“Teeny little cutoffs and two beepers on his belt. I didn’t see his ass but I’m guessing it had a bar code on it.”
“Did
Lily
see this?”
“Sees it all the time apparently. He tells her they’re his
students
. Says he’s giving them acting lessons.”
“Acting lessons?” said Stephen, roaring with laughter. “That old goat! He’s fucking shameless!”
“My God,” I thought,
“I’m dishing with Stephen Donato!!”
“Anyway, I’ll be seeing Lily every day starting tomorrow, so I should have lots to report soon. Perhaps,” I said, screwing
up my courage, “we could talk over coffee or a drink?”