The Wisdom of Perversity (27 page)

So what? Who cares what self-indulgence Jeff Mark is up to? I have my playmates, he has his.

But he wanted to know. Brian's frustration at the blank obstacle mounted. He tried to reason it away, reminding himself his objective was to expose Klein and Rydel, not Jeff. But he decided to confront Jeff when he came out and that's when he noticed the intercom: a small black plastic box, set discreetly into the brick to the left of the door, nearly invisible in the shadows of the night.

He moved into the well of the doorway to study it. There were six buttons, marked crudely One, Two, Three, and Three-A and two others not marked at all. Beside One was a cheap stick-on label that read
STUDIO
, the
S
and
T
peeling off from the top edges. Two and Three had spent the money to have a slide-on nameplate made that covered both spaces to read
BROADWAY PRINTING
, and Three-A had also made the effort to get a nameplate, which read
RICHARD REISER, CPA
. Two, Three and Three-A were obviously daytime businesses, except perhaps Mr. Reiser during tax season. Only the mysterious studio could be a nocturnal enterprise. And Brian knew well what studio was a euphemism for.

It couldn't be just a regular hooker, male or female. This had to be at least a tranny, someone Jeff daren't risk summoning to his hotel, who couldn't be alibied as a masseuse, because venturing to this dingy location was no more discreet than indulging in his room. And far less safe. Leaving a star-studded dinner, gutters awash in paparazzi, to walk through deserted streets, phone for directions, and disappear behind a metal door was really dangerous, a terrible risk. No, this was self-hatred and self-destruction, this was Jeff Mark acting out a perverse need, and Brian was pleased, very pleased, to discover that Jeff wasn't unscathed.

He should play it safe and wait. The general knowledge ought to be enough to give him leverage when he confronted Jeff. He could probably bluff the truth out of Jeff or at least provoke him sufficiently to learn the general neighborhood of the poor sap's lusts.

But he wanted to
see. I always want to see, that is the cause of my tragedy,
he had rhymed as a teenage poet.

Brian dialed information on his iPhone. He asked for a listing of a “Studio” with that building's address. The operator immediately objected to the vague name, but Brian insisted that since he had a particular address it oughtn't to matter. The operator relented, was silent for a moment and then, with some satisfaction, informed him there was no listing for “a Studio at that address.”

He glanced at the time. Twelve forty. He guessed Jeff had been inside for ten minutes. He returned to the anonymous door, moved into the darkness of its well and stared at the Studio button, trying to calculate how stupid what he was about to do might be.

Embarrassing, he decided, surely not dangerous. He pressed the intercom. He didn't have long to wait. “Who is it?” a harassed and irritated female voice asked.

Brian leaned close, almost kissed the grill of the intercom to reply, “Hi, I've lost your number. I'm sorry, I know I should call ahead, but I lost your number and I was in the neighborhood, so I was hoping you could squeeze me in tonight now. Or I can come back in a half hour and buzz again. Or you could give me your number and I'll call in half an hour. Whatever you prefer.”

There was a beat, presumably of confusion, before the harsh, hoarse female voice demanded, “Who is it?”

“Richard,” he said. “It's Richard Klein.” He wondered for a moment if this indulgence of irony was a mistake. What if Jeff were listening in? But then there would be a certain satisfaction in having revealed his presence with that moniker—imagine the horror on his friend's face hearing Klein's name in the middle of whatever revolting act of sexual gratification he had chosen for his flabby middle-aged body. “I haven't been in New York for a year. That's why I can't find your number—”

“Do you have an appointment?” she demanded. She sounded like an ill-tempered scold, a remarkably unwelcoming voice for a prostitute. He was disappointed anyway that a woman had answered. It would have been a pleasure to discover a homosexual Jeff cowering in the closet, a cowardly closet in 2008, especially in show business, unless you were an action star or a femme fatale. For a director, being gay wouldn't be a drawback at all. What a pleasure it would be to discover that Jeff Mark was living in a hell largely of his own making.

“No,” Brian said. “That's why I'm buzzing you. I want to make an appointment and I don't have your phone number.”

“Go to my website. DDNYC dot com,” she said. “The number's there.” She hung up.

He walked under an amber streetlamp, typed the address into his iPhone browser and waited for her webpage to load. The animated image appeared in jerky lines from the top down: a buxom middle-aged redhead in a pale gray jacket and long skirt, her business attire and somber expression made mischievous by a hairbrush she held in her right hand, the wood side tapping her left palm. A line of text at the bottom was the last to appear: “Domestic Discipline Administered by Katherine Stern.” He tapped the link for Services, although he was confident he already knew what it would reveal. “No BDSM and Definitely NO SEX,” her website explained. “Just the Spanking you Naughty little boys Deserve,” her ad admonished with arbitrary Victorian capitalization.

He moved into the shadows near the metal door, leaning against the frame, prepared to wait. He would embarrass Jeff when he exited. He pictured the surprise and mortification on his old friend's face, imagining his own grin and laughter.

But in the darkness of his ambush the prospect didn't blossom. Anticipating humiliating Jeff brought him no pleasure.
Who am I really shaming?
he wondered.

Walk away,
he urged himself.
He suffers. Jeff also suffers.

Brian looked again at the spanker's ad. He wiped it off his screen and pocketed his iPhone. He began a lonely walk home, sad and satisfied by knowing that he and Jeff were yet sharing the bitter brew of their past, each trying to control what had once controlled them, still connected like best friends, desperate to make painless theater out of their ruined childhoods.

The Men in Her Life

February 2008

THE MORNING WAS
bright and cold. Too cold to enjoy shade. Julie stepped from under the Four Seasons' covered entrance to feel the sun on her face. She was waiting for Brian. She had been awake all night, unable to sleep on Amelia's pullout couch. She had retired to her guest quarters immediately on returning to the apartment, pleading that she was too upset about her “fight” with Gary to talk about it, which she expected Amelia would assume was over her discovering that Gary was having another affair. She had left at 5:45 a.m. to avoid a breakfast interrogation, waiting in a coffee shop for a decent hour to try Brian's cell. He had beat her to it, calling her at seven. “Get your ass down to the Four Seasons in a hour,” he'd told her. “Wait for me outside the front entrance.”

“Why?” she had asked.

“We're having breakfast with Jeff,” he'd said, and then hung up.

When Brian eventually appeared from a cab, she tried again to find out. “What's happened?”

“Nothing. Just that it's time to confront him.” He yawned. Maybe out of tension, but his eyes looked as if he too hadn't slept. He guided her toward the uniformed hotel doorman, already pushing the revolving door for their benefit, and then led her though the imposing and somewhat gloomy lobby, better suited, she thought, to a modern cathedral than a hotel. He stopped at a counter near the front desk, picking up a matte black phone with no dial or buttons. He said, “Penthouse A, please.” There was a pause. A slow smile dawned on Brian's face. He said with an obnoxious air, “Yes, I can tell you whom I'm trying to reach. I'm trying to reach Saul Klein. Thank you.”

Brian put a hand over the receiver. “His wife told me to give that name as code. He's using Klein as an alias, can you believe that shit?” He uncovered and said with brittle cheerfulness into the house phone, “Jeff! It's Brian! Yes, Brian Moran! Can you believe it? It's really me. I'm in the lobby of your hotel and I'm starving. I want to have breakfast with you. What a surprise, no?”

Certainly this was a surprise to Julie. They were crashing? She had assumed Brian had already made a date with Jeff. She couldn't hear Jeff's reply. Brian maintained his sarcastic gaiety, “Yes, I did tell Halley and Veronica I was in Paris. Guess what? I lied.” He met Julie's eyes while he added, “But I'm not the only surprise, Jeff. Guess who's here with me? And she's also dying to have breakfast with you. No guesses? Well, it's your long-lost cousin, the beautiful Julie, the daughter of your dead father's brother, probably the closest living relative you have. What do you say, Jeff, do you have an hour to spare to meet your oldest friend and your closest relative in the world for a yummy breakfast? All you have to do is throw on a
shmata
and take the elevator downstairs.” There was a longish silence, a little too long for comfort. “Forty-five minutes?” Brian said. “Come on, you don't have to shower and shave for us. We're family. Get down here in fifteen minutes, Jeff, or you'll regret it.” Brian hung up with a bang.

“I can't believe you did that.”

“You wanted me to do that,” he said.

At the reception desk of the hotel's dining room, a solemn young man in a black jacket with too many buttons and not enough shoulder padding greeted him on arrival. “Good morning, Mr. Moran. Welcome back to the Four Seasons. Who are you joining today?” Julie was profoundly impressed he knew Brian by sight.

“Jeff Mark,” Brian mumbled, as if he were ashamed of it.

Although this young maître d' had already seemed to have exhibited as much deference as possible, he summoned more from a reserve of servility: “Very good, Mr. Moran.” He checked his book. “I'm afraid I don't have a reservation for Mr. Mark—”

Brian cut him off. “I just spoke to him in his suite. He said you'd find us a table and he would be down in fifteen minutes. He's going under the name Saul Klein. You can call and check with him.”

“That won't be necessary, Mr. Moran.” He signaled a tall, thin blonde who until then Julie had assumed was a world-class fashion model waiting to be seated for her own power breakfast. “Ann will take you to your table.” The extraordinarily thin and lovely young woman escorted them to a table big enough for six, set in near isolation at the rear of the double height room, beside an enormous recessed window. Nothing about how Jeff was treated ought to have surprised Julie, but the reality did anyway.

The blonde asked if they wanted juice or coffee. Nearly simultaneous with their affirmatives, a solemn young man, wearing a well-fitted striped vest, immediately appeared with a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice while she handed them menus large enough to be the tablets on which Charlton Heston had received the Ten Commandments.

Brian caught Julie's eye as she watched a fourth attendant arrive with a carafe of coffee. “Regular coffee all right, miss?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Julie grinned at Brian.

He nodded for the waiter to give him coffee. “Remember, while we're talking to Jeff, that this is how he is treated twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”

“Even by his wife?” Julie couldn't resist trying to puncture Brian's hyperbole.

He wasn't deflated. “I'm sure she has a staff of ten to pamper him for her. My point is, he's not a real person anymore. He doesn't have the faintest idea what real life is like.”

Julie respected Brian's obvious desire that she take this observation to heart, so she considered it while sipping coffee. She argued gently, “But you haven't seen Jeff in almost thirty years.”

Brian sighed. “Okay. I don't really know Jeff today, but I just want you to bear in mind that he hasn't had to lift a finger for himself for decades, that there are hundreds of thousands of people, a few million if he bothered to seek them out, all willing to tell him everything he does and says is brilliant. Maybe there is someone on this earth on whom that would have no effect, but I'm certain if I was treated that way, for just three weeks, I would soon feel I was an equal of Da Vinci's. And not just as an artist. The sciences too.”

She studied Brian's handsome face for a clue to whether he really meant what he said. He returned her scrutiny. For a long moment they gazed at each like fascinated lovers. “I don't think you would,” she said at last. “I think you'd decide they were sycophants. I don't think you'd trust them.”

“Well,” Brian said, “that just means my self-esteem is so low I can only enjoy abuse.”

“Maybe Jeff's just like you,” Julie argued. “Maybe the only thing he finds convincing is abuse.”

Brian laughed abruptly, as if she had surprised him. “You're right, Julie. You're absolutely right. Probably the only thing Jeff thinks is real is when someone abuses him.”

Julie was pleased to win this argument. Brian was much less interested in besting and correcting her than Gary. Maybe only lawyers were irritating in that way. She was unaccountably happy. Her life had unraveled and she felt not undone, but relaxed. If the small secrets of her quiet life were about to be pinched and zoomed onto everyone's iPhone, at least having Brian along was entertaining.

Brian said, “Let's order. I told him fifteen minutes, but Jeff's a director. He could keep us waiting for two hours.”

While they waited she told him about Gary's terrible fall and her running away. She had plenty of time for a full account. Jeff took thirty minutes to appear and he arrived with a surprise. He was accompanied by a tall, elegant woman who Julie guessed was in her early forties although her precise age was difficult to assess. Her face looked unnaturally smooth—Julie couldn't decide if that was Botox or surgery. Her long, flowing hair also projected a convincing and impossible youthfulness, a rich tapestry of colors ranging from auburn to chestnut, the weave sufficiently subtle that Julie knew each strand had been dyed individually. She wore what Julie recognized as one of that season's Armani ensembles—delicate knee-length cashmere cardigan over a shimmering and yet casual white silk blouse, a black wool skirt extended seamlessly by boots whose buttery thin leather implied they were skinned from a pedigreed calf raised on a strict diet of caviar. That had to be at least fifteen thousand dollars' worth of clothing. Julie didn't attempt a guess at the cost of the double strings of pearls draped about the woman's implausibly smooth neck, cascading down into the crinkled folds of her blouse, coming to rest on a bosom whose impressive size Julie assumed had been augmented. Nor could Julie make an informed estimate of the value of an antique silver ring on her wedding finger, set with a large emerald encircled by glittering diamonds. Julie watched with fascination as the woman, confident and predatory, crossed ahead of Jeff to swoop at Brian, dark red manicured talons extended, reaching for purchase on the bruised man.

Meanwhile Jeff stopped in his tracks, jaw dropping, opening his arms wide in astonishment. “Julie, you look great! You look so young! I can't believe it. How do you do it? Is there a painting of you somewhere?” He lowered his voice to add, “I'm sorry I didn't let you know I was in town, but I can explain—we're testing
Helper II
tonight and things have been crazy.”

Julie didn't answer, absorbed by Brian's reaction to the extraordinary woman's approach. He stood up as she made a beeline for him, putting out a hand to ward her off. She grabbed it with both hands and brought it to her bosom. “Brian Moran,” she announced as if introducing him to a crowd. “I love you so much. I love everything about you and I've never met you. I can't believe I've never met you! I feel like we're brother and sister, that we're soul mates, that I've known you all my life. Your words . . .” She shook her mane from side to side, a show horse's proud display. Julie forgot all about Jeff and his compliments. She was profoundly impressed by the woman's talent for flattery, praise so bold it was like a storm surge, drowning natural skepticism. She was impressed also by her utter freedom from any trace of shyness. She continued drenching Brian with praise. “Your words, my God, your words in
The Lost Man,
they echo in my head all the time. I can't forget them. And I don't want to forget them. Ever.” Finally she stopped hugging Brian's hand, releasing him to say to Jeff, “Isn't that the truth? Tell him I'm not being a full-of-shit Hollywood producer.”

“She
is
a full-of-shit producer,” Jeff said. “But she's not being one now.”

Brian grimaced, shaking his hand in the air as if she'd put it to sleep. “I believe you,” he said glumly. “But who are you?”

Now that Brian had finally spoken to her, she ignored him, addressing Julie confidentially as if they were old friends, “I didn't tell him my name. Can you believe it? You'd think I was raised in the Bronx Zoo.” She still didn't introduce herself to Brian. She offered a bejeweled hand to Julie. “I'm Grace Meyer,” she said, a name that meant nothing to Julie but certainly did to Brian.

Although Brian had pretended otherwise, he had met Grace Meyer years ago at a screening. He wasn't surprised or offended that she didn't remember him. At the time, he was an unproduced screenwriter whose name wasn't likely to stick to the brain pan of one of the most successful women in Hollywood. Grace was the first female to head a studio, back when she was just a youngster in the seventies. She wasn't in her forties, as Julie assumed, she was sixty-three. As an independent producer, she was credited with four of the ten top-grossing films of the last decade, one of a handful of people who could make a screenwriter's dreams (and nightmares) come true. He knew Grace couldn't possibly remember all the anxious and hopeful faces that had been thrust into her field of vision. But now that Brian was no longer unproduced, he relished the perverse pleasure of obliging Grace to introduce herself all over again.

While Jeff, Brian, and Julie remained standing, Grace sat down at their table opening her arms to Brian as if welcoming him into her bed. “I got permission from Jeff to crash your breakfast because this is Kismet. I was about to call your agent this morning. I need your help desperately. I've got a book, one of the most beautiful books ever written, that's going to make a fantastic, moving, extraordinary movie and you have to write it for me. You're the only writer . . . well”—she smiled knowingly—“not the only writer, but the best writer for the job. Can I pitch it to you?”

Brian didn't reply. He rudely looked away to study Jeff, taking advantage of his greater height to inspect, in an insultingly overt manner, Jeff's spreading bald spot. Julie, from her angle on his other side, noticed that Jeff was carrying something in his left hand, drooping by his leg as if he hoped to conceal it. She leaned over enough to see it was a small, inflated pillow in the shape of a lifesaver, discreetly housed in a black suede covering.

Jeff spoke first, demanding of Brian, “How rude can you be? Aren't you going to answer her?”

Brian finally looked at Grace. He gestured at Julie and Jeff. “I'm afraid I meant this to be a reunion. Not business.”

“Yes, of course, Jeff told me all about it. It's so charming that you haven't seen each other in so long. But like all producers, I have no manners when it comes to a passion project and passion is a weak word for what I feel about this one—it's like my own heart beating . . . I don't know what I'm saying, but I swear I'm crashing your lovely reunion for only a few minutes,” Grace said, still the only one seated. “I'll have a cup of coffee with you . . .” The busboy and waiter were already assembling another place setting. “And make my pitch and get out of your hair so you old friends can enjoy each other over a long scrumptious breakfast.” She turned to the waiter, intercepting him as he was about to pour. “Is that decaf?” she asked, which sent him hurrying off to fetch a different carafe.