“You
pled
guilty.”
Walsh stared at Jimmy with those sad, sleepy eyes. “Maybe I was wrong.”
Chapter 3
“Cocktail?” Walsh held up two prescription bottles and gave them a shake.
“Pass.”
“Your loss.” Walsh shook out a couple of Percocets, added a Vicodin, and tossed them into his mouth, washing them down with a swallow of screwtop brandy. He faced Jimmy across the card table and defiantly drew out a long pungent belch. A dented, manual typewriter rested on the card table, an old Underwood, heavy enough to bring down a charging rhino. Stacked beside the typewriter was a manuscript, yellow Post-it Notes sticking out from between the pages. An accordion-style file folder lay open on the floor, next to a wastebasket filled with balled-up paper and empty pint bottles.
They had moved into the rear of the trailer after Rollo drove away with the twins, Walsh pulling aside the paisley-print sheet as though he were ushering Jimmy into Valhalla. While the main room was shabby and strewn with clothes and debris, this back area was neat and clean, furnished with only the card table, two chairs, and the typewriter. One wall was lined with books. Walsh’s remaining Oscar looked lonely all by itself on the top shelf. A narrow piece of foam served for a bed, the white cotton sheet taut, the pillow shaped and flattened. The room was probably the exact size and configuration of the cell Walsh had spent the last seven years in.
“You ever been in love?” Walsh held the a bottle of brandy like a scepter. “The
real
thing, not just slamming the meat around.”
Jimmy straddled the other chair, elbows resting on the wooden back. “You said you wanted to tell me about your new screenplay. Let’s get to it.”
“If you’ve never been in love, you’re never going to understand the screenplay. I’d just be wasting my time.” Walsh leaned back in his chair until the two front legs came off the floor, precariously balanced, but he was unconcerned. From the knees down his jeans were a darker blue where he had slipped in the koi pond, but he didn’t seem to care about that either. “So
have
you or haven’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Jimmy, feeling like he had surrendered something, “I’ve been in love.”
“Lucky us, huh?” Walsh brought the chair back down, picked up the sheaf of paper, and waved it in Jimmy’s face. Every page had corrections written on it. “It’s called
Fall Guy.
” He tossed it back onto the desk. “That’s all I told the studios when I shopped it around a few weeks ago. The title and my track record should have been enough. Selling the sizzle—that was all it should have taken to get an offer. Instead, all I got was thanks but no thanks, fuck you very much.”
Jimmy could see Walsh’s gold nipple ring tremble with every raspy breath he took.
Walsh whipped his thumb across the bottle. The cap flew off, and he batted it away with the other hand; it was one of those showy, jailhouse bits of business perfected by men with nothing but time. Jimmy had seen cons roll a cigarette with two fingers, seen them dance a quarter across their knuckles, move it back and forth across the bones. It didn’t impress him. Walsh took a swallow of no-name brandy. “I once paid a thousand dollars for a bottle of cognac—”
“Did you kill the girl?”
Walsh scratched at the red devil on his shoulder—it was an ugly tattoo, the pitchfork crooked, the horns on its head uneven. “I wish I knew.”
Jimmy watched Walsh pop open a prescription bottle. He wanted to believe that Walsh was lying to him, stringing him along, but the man’s confusion and frustration were real.
Walsh tossed a couple more Percocets down his throat and chased them with another belt of brandy. “Best news since getting sprung was finding all the new legal dope out there. Just tell the doctor you hurt your back mowing the crabgrass, they write you a scrip.”
“Let me read the screenplay. Then you can pass out in peace.”
“Tough guy—yeah, I can spot them a mile away.” Walsh waved the manuscript. “Well,
I’m
a certified fucking genius.
I’m
in the history books. What about you?”
Jimmy glanced at his watch.
“It’s a good half-hour drive to Napitano’s from here, so relax.” Walsh took another pull on the bottle. “That little prick has quite a place: three or four acres it looked like, swimming pools, fountains, tennis courts, statues everywhere.” He belched again. “I tried to crash Napitano’s party last month. Spent ten minutes arguing with one of the security guards. Punk had never even heard of
Firebug.
Two fucking Oscars—I might as well be Shelley Winters for all the good they’re doing me.”
Jimmy laughed, and Walsh laughed too, shaking his head, and Jimmy almost liked him.
“How many times did you see
Firebug
?” asked Walsh. “Come on, ’fess up.”
“Four times.”
Walsh grinned, and it wasn’t the phony leer he had turned on the twins. This one was honest, almost shy. “It
was
a good movie, wasn’t it?” He banged the bottle down. “All those film school brats flocking to Sundance—I used to feel intimidated. While they were getting hands on with Coppola and Redford, I was cleaning sinks and buffing floors. I worked graveyard as a janitor when I wrote
Firebug,
did you know that?”
Jimmy nodded.
“That’s how I met Harold Fong, the software geek who put up the money for Firebug. He was always pulling all-nighters at DataSurge, and I’d stop by on my breaks, and we’d shoot the shit about movies. It didn’t matter that he owned the company and I took out the trash, we
both
loved the Coen brothers. Him and me used to do bits from
The
Big Lebowski
and
Fargo
that went on for ten minutes. Harold fucked me on the profit participation for
Firebug,
but he backed me when no one else would. Now I can’t even get past his secretary’s secretary.” His eyes were red-rimmed. “You ever been in love?”
“You already asked me that.”
“Right.” Walsh blinked, clutched the screenplay. “You can’t read
Fall Guy,
not yet anyway. I name names, the
real
names too, nothing changed to protect the innocent—or the guilty.” He looked up. “I’ll
tell
you the story, though. We’ll make it a pitch meeting, and you can smile and pretend you understand, just like a real studio exec.” He pushed his hair back, and there was something about that long sullen face, something that peeked through the abuse and squandered talent, that touched Jimmy. Walsh stood up, the chair falling over behind him.
“The opening shot is of our hero in prison, staring at a letter,” said Walsh, pacing, sketching the scene with his hands. “He hasn’t opened it. He’s almost afraid to open it. He just lies there on the lower bunk, tracing the feminine handwriting of the address with the tip of his finger. It’s night, the cell lit only by the dim security light overhead. We can hear his cellie snoring, and the usual noises in the background, men crying in their sleep, somebody grunting out push-ups, but our guy is in a world of his own. He’s waited all day for this moment. He takes a tentative sniff of the envelope and closes his eyes, savoring the memory. Then, very slowly, very carefully, he slides his pinkie under the envelope flap, and we hear the sound of paper tearing on the soundtrack. Fadeout.” Walsh glanced at Jimmy, trying to gauge his reaction.
Jimmy looked back at him. Walsh had his complete attention.
“Flashback to our hero before he was in prison—a young filmmaker, so fucking hot, the sidewalk smokes under his feet. Studio executives are calling him, putting the calls in
themselves,
and the women—the pussy comes out of the woodwork when you’re famous. You could be Quasimodo, and they’d still want to fuck you, and it
definitely
goes to our hero’s head, but he keeps working harder than ever, burning the candle at both ends, taking a blowtorch to it, scared that he’s going to wake up one morning and be back pulling Kotex out of clogged toilets. His second film is much more ambitious—instead of a million-dollar budget, it’s slated at seventy million, and he’s got real actors to work with this time, and a real crew, and gofers bringing him espresso.
“Then one day, right out of the blue, he meets
her.
The girl. Every good story has to have a girl, and here she is, smart and funny and so beautiful, the kind of girl he’s jacked off to his whole life. Only one problem—she’s married. She’s signed a till-death-do-us-part contract with a powerful man, a dangerous man. But our hero doesn’t care, he’s used to getting what he wants, and what he wants is
her.
And because this is a Hollywood story, the girl feels the same way about him. Love, Jimmy, the real thing, ocean deep and mountain high, the kind you risk your first-class life for, the kind you have to grab for when you see it, because it may never come again. That kind of love.”
Walsh sat down, their knees almost touching. “If this was a real pitch meeting, Jimmy, you’d ask me on what page do they fuck, and I’d say, without even looking at my notes, I’d say page fourteen, and you’d like that, because the audience doesn’t like to wait more than fourteen minutes to see the hero and the girl fuck. You’ve got to feed the beast, Jimmy, and fuck they do, our hero and the good wife— that’s what he calls her, their private joke. They scorch the sheets, our hero and the good wife, they tear each other apart and put themselves back together again, and what they have is so sweet, it’s worth every lie, every excuse, every broken promise.” He squeezed Jimmy’s leg. “It’s worth the
risk.
And it is a risk. For her. For him.”
Jimmy was hooked.
“Our hero has made enemies on the ride to the top. Boy wonders are easy targets, and our hero, he’s left himself open. He’s a little afraid of the husband, if truth be told, but that only makes the loving sweeter, and besides, our hero is clever—his scripts are intricate, devious thrillers, full of twists and reversals. He’s a man who knows how to get away with
anything.
Our hero gets off on the danger, but the wife, the good wife, is more . . . practical. She backs off a little bit. Not much. It’s not over, she assures him, she just needs a little room, a little space, because she’s having a hard time faking it at home, and she’s worried that the husband is going to wise up—and maybe, just maybe, she needs a break from the boy wonder.”
They were so close that Jimmy could count the broken blood vessels in the whites of Walsh’s eyes.
“The little break turns into a week, and then another,” said Walsh, his face shiny with sweat, “and our hero is dying inside. He leaves messages on her machine, their private call-me code, two short beeps and one long, but she doesn’t respond, and he’s getting mad now, angry at her for leaving him hanging, angry at himself for missing her. One afternoon he’s sitting on the back porch of his beach house, working on the shooting script. This second movie,
Hammerlock,
is weeks behind schedule, and the suits are getting jumpy, and though he would never admit it, he is too. All those stolen afternoons with the wife have come with a price, and there’s rumbling in the trades, anonymous, of course, that our hero is a one-hit wonder.
“So this particular day, he’s sitting out in the hot sun, when who should appear but a beautiful girl in a pink bikini. Her name is Heather, a gorgeous blonde who has stepped on a piece of broken glass and cut her foot. Blood on the sand. Can you see it? Our hero is a creature of images, and the sight of the lovely Heather with blood dripping off the sole of her foot—you should have been there, tough guy.
You
should have been there instead of me.
“The director invites her in to clean up while he gets bandages. It’s not a bad cut, but it hurts, and the pain in her face arouses him more than it should. The blonde has no idea who he is. She’s young, nineteen she tells him, a college girl majoring in nothing in particular. She sees his two Oscars on the mantelpiece and asks him where he bought them, and she’s serious. She lies back on the floor, her foot in his lap while he cleans the wound, blowing on her toes when he applies the antiseptic, and her eyes go right through him. She goes back to the beach for her blanket and towel and coconut suntan oil, and when she comes back, our hero has a couple lines of coke waiting, and one thing leads to another, and he’s aware of the good wife, knows that he’s cheating on her, but she’s cheating on him with her husband, and then the college girl shrugs off her bikini, and that’s all, Jimmy, that is
all.
”
Jimmy saw Walsh fight off the shakes, but he made no move to help him.
“Our hero and Heather spend the afternoon fucking and doing coke and fucking some more. He’s making up for lost time now, and he’s switched to smoking heroin, the better to take the edge off, my dear, the better to push away the image of the good wife.” Walsh balled his hands so tightly, his knuckles were white. “No smack for the girl though. She was curious, but he wouldn’t give her any, not even a taste. He was a stone junkie, but he knew enough not to let her get started. He didn’t want that on his conscience.” He looked at Jimmy. “That counts for something, doesn’t it?”
Jimmy nodded.
“Well sir, they fuck all afternoon, and into the evening, and the last thing our hero remembers is nodding off with his face against her soft skin. When he wakes up—when he wakes, he’s on his feet, sleepwalking, and this big policeman is holding on to him, saying,
What have you done, buddy?
Our hero can barely hear the cop, his attention focused on the blonde lying at his feet with her head caved in, that soft skin ruined, and one of his Oscars is beside her, slick with blood. The policeman keeps repeating,
What have you done,
buddy?
and our hero . . . he doesn’t know what to say.
“The trial doesn’t take long. It’s not that kind of movie. The hero’s team of five-hundred-dollar-an-hour attorneys suggest that he paint Heather Grimm as a coke whore, a desperate Lolita eager to fuck her way into the movies who attacked him when he put her off. Instead, our hero takes the DA’s plea bargain. He’s an arrogant bastard, but he remembers what Heather’s face used to look like, he remembers her laugh.”
“He knows that any jury in their right mind is going to hand him a life-without-parole ticket,” said Jimmy. “He knows with the plea bargain and good behavior he can walk in seven. What about the good wife? What does she do?”