Until I Find You (65 page)

Moments like that made Jack even more of an outsider. When you know you’ve spooked someone, you learn to be careful. What Emma called Jack’s
noir
thing was a bit creepy. Bankable, yes, but
likable
?

Jack Burns had found a close-up all his own; it was more disquieting than Toshiro Mifune’s scowl. Jack couldn’t really see himself, only his effect on others. Was it a sexually disturbing look? Yes, definitely. Was it more threatening than
noir
? Well—it was beyond mischievous, anyway.

“It’s unpredictable, honey pie—that’s your look.”

“That’s just acting,” he told her. (
That’s just keeping my audience of one on his toes,
Jack thought.)

“No, that’s
you,
baby cakes. You’re unpredictable. That’s what’s scary about you, Jack.”

“I’m not scary!” he insisted. Jack thought that
Emma
was the scary one.

He would remember where they were when Emma said he was scary. They were on Sunset Boulevard in the silver Audi. Jack was driving. They were in Hollywood—Château Marmont territory, where John Belushi died—and Jack was trying to figure out what it was that had scared Jessica Lee. “Maybe the dress was all wrong for me,” he said to Emma. “I wish I could just forget about it.”

“Boy, am I sick of the Bar Marmont,” was all Emma said.

Because Jack was famous, he was always admitted to the Bar Marmont, which was adjacent to the hotel. It was big and noisy, a scene—lots of fake boobs and aspiring talent managers, very trendy, ultra young. There were usually about thirty people outside, being denied entrance; on this particular night, Lawrence was among them. Emma looked the other way, but Lawrence caught Jack’s wrist.

“You’re not a girl tonight? You’re just a guy? How disappointing to your fans!” Lawrence cried.

Emma caught him in the nuts with her knee; then she and Jack went inside together. Lawrence was lying in a fetal way, his knees drawn up to his chest in a kind of birthing position—not that anything was forthcoming. Jack would remember thinking that if
he’d
kneed Lawrence in the balls, there would have been a lawsuit, but Emma could get away with it. (That’s why he thought
she
was the scary one.)

The Château Marmont—the hotel itself—was another story. Jack didn’t go to that lobby to be with a crowd, but he often saw actors having meetings there. Jack would have a bunch of meetings in that lobby—the lobby was really a bar.

He preferred to have his meetings, when he could choose, in the bar at the Four Seasons Hotel in Beverly Hills. In Jack’s opinion, this was where the classiest meetings happened. He was convinced that famous ghosts would one day haunt the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills—actors whose meetings went awry. But, for Jack, it was the only place where he felt like an insider.

For the most part, like Emma, he was still an outsider; they were notoriously uncool. The U.S. wasn’t their country. L.A. wasn’t their town. Not that they were Canadians, either. Toronto didn’t feel like home.

Redding had been the first and last place Jack had fit in. Somehow he and Emma knew they would
never
fit in in L.A. It wasn’t a matter of being famous; that was only what other people saw. With the money they’d made, Emma and Jack could have moved from Entrada, but Jack was more and more persuaded by Emma’s determination to remain an outsider. For them, Los Angeles was a working town; whatever else they were, Emma and Jack were workers. L.A. was their
job.

Being seen—being
spotted—
was part of the job. (Part of Jack’s, anyway; Emma didn’t care who saw her.)

In their own way, they were gods, Emma and Jack—uncool Canadian gods in the city of angels. And like the gods, they were remote. They didn’t see themselves all that clearly; typical of the movie business, they registered their performances by how they were received. But in his heart, Jack Burns knew that Donald, that prick maître d’ at Stan’s, had been right. Donald had seen through him: Jack was a hick from Toronto via New Hampshire. Yes, he was a U.S. citizen and a legal resident of Santa Monica, California, but Jack wasn’t truly living anywhere—he was just biding his time. (At least he knew how to do that. He’d done it before, with Claudia.)

Naturally, Jack was making a ton of money. Yet Jack knew that wasn’t all there was, or all that he was supposed to be.

Jack was in Toronto—unwillingly, as usual. Emma wasn’t with him, though she generally spent more time there than he did; being a writer was such a big deal in Canada.

“Life is a call sheet,” Emma wrote in
The Slush-Pile Reader.
“You’re supposed to show up when they tell you, but that’s the only rule.”

Hanging out with his mom in Daughter Alice, Jack started arguing with her about tattoo conventions. There never used to
be
tattoo conventions, but lately Alice had been going to one every month. She’d attended one in Tokyo and another in Madrid, but mostly she went to the conventions in the United States. They were everywhere.

The rare times Alice came to Los Angeles were usually in the fall, and not exclusively to visit Jack. Not so coincidentally, that was the time of the annual Inkslingers Ball—the L.A. tattoo and body-piercing convention. It was allegedly the world’s largest; they held it in the Hollywood Palladium on Sunset Boulevard, a former swing-era dance hall.

The New York tattoo convention, where Daughter Alice was also a regular, was held in the Roseland Ballroom on West Fifty-second Street—that one was in the spring. The one in Atlanta was also in the spring. There was even one in Maine—in
February
! Despite her promises, Jack’s mom never once came to Maine to visit him at Redding, but she wouldn’t miss the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party in Portland.

Alice went to the Hell City Tattoo Festival—this being in Columbus, Ohio, in a Hyatt Regency Hotel. (That one was in June, if Jack remembered correctly.) He thought his mom liked Philadelphia the best. She had a photograph of herself with Crazy Philadelphia Eddie; he always wore a yellow sports jacket and had his hair so stiff with gel that it stood up like a rooster’s comb.

Wherever the convention was—Dallas or Dublin, the so-called Meeting of the Marked in Pittsburgh, the annual Man’s Ruin in Decatur, Illinois—Daughter Alice went.

She had been to Boston and to Hamburg, Germany. To her great disappointment, Herbert Hoffmann had retired, but she met Robert Gorlt in Hamburg. “He’s six-nine and played basketball in Canada,” she told Jack.

Tattoo artists from all over the world came to these conventions: from Tahiti, Cyprus, Samoa; from Thailand and Mexico, and from Paris, Berlin, and Miami. They even came from Oklahoma, where tattooing was illegal. (There was nowhere Alice wouldn’t go to meet with her colleagues—including some Sheraton in the Meadowlands.) And it was always the same people who went.

“If it’s always the same weirdos, why go?” Jack asked his mother. “Why go again and again?”

“Because we
are
the same weirdos, Jack. Because we are what we do. We don’t change.”

“For Christ’s sake, Mom, do you have any idea what sort of shit can happen to you in a Hyatt Regency in Columbus, Ohio, or in a fucking Sheraton in the Meadowlands?”

“If Miss Wurtz could hear you, Jack,” his mother said. “If poor Lottie, or Mrs. Wicksteed—may she rest in peace—could hear you. It’s so sad what’s happened to your
language.
Is it California or the movie business that’s done this to you?”

“Done
what
to me?”

“Maybe it’s Emma,” Alice said. “It’s living with that foul-mouthed girl—I know it is. It’s
for Christ’s sake
this and
fucking
that. To hear you talk, you’d think that
shit
were an all-purpose noun! And you used to speak so well. You once knew how to talk. You
enunciated
perfectly.”

She had a point, but it was just like Alice to change the subject. Here Jack was, trying to impress upon her—a middle-aged woman—that these tattoo conventions were freak shows, and his mother got all in a knot about his
language.
The conventions were absolutely terrifying. The full-body wackos turned up; they had
contests
! Ex-convicts were tattooed
—prison
tattoos were a genre as distinctive as biker tattoos. Strippers were tattooed, not to mention porn stars. (Jack’s “research,” meaning countless Hank Long films, had taught him that.)

Just who did Daughter Alice think these conventions were
for
? Jack had seen those angry voodoo dolls and the slashed heart with the dagger in it—the latter inscribed
NO REGRET—
at Riley Baxter’s Tabu Tattoo in West L.A. (On Baxter’s business card, under one such voodoo doll, it said
DISPOSABLE NEEDLES.
)

Alice’s waist had thickened, but she’d not lost her pretty smile; her hair, once an amber or maple-syrup color, was streaked with gray. But her skin was surprisingly unwrinkled, and her choice in clothing took noticeable advantage of her full breasts. She liked dresses with an empire waist, and usually a scoop or square neckline. At her age, she wore an underwire bra—she liked red or fuchsia. That day in Daughter Alice, she wore a peasant-style dress with a neckline that dropped from the apex of her shoulders; her bra straps were showing, but they usually were. Jack thought that she liked her bra straps to show, although she never wore a dress or blouse with a revealing décolletage. “My cleavage,” Alice liked to say, “is nobody’s business.” (Strange, Jack used to think—how his mom wanted everyone to know she had good breasts, but she never bared even a little bit of them.)

And what was a woman who
wouldn’t
bare her breasts doing at tattoo conventions? “Mom—” Jack tried to say, but she was fussing with a pot of tea; she’d turned her back on him.

“And the
women,
Jack. Do you know any
nice
girls? Or have I just not met them?”

“Nice?”

“Like Claudia. She was nice. What’s happened to Claudia?”

“I don’t know, Mom.”

“What about that unfortunate young woman who had an entry-level job at the William Morris Agency? She had the strangest lisp, didn’t she?”

“Gwen somebody,” he said. (That was all he remembered about Gwen—she lisped. Maybe she was still at William Morris, maybe not.)

“Gwen is long gone, is she?” his mom asked. “Do you still take honey in your tea, dear?”

“Yes, Gwen is long gone. No, I don’t take honey—I never have.”

“Actresses, waitresses, office girls,
meat heiresses—
not to mention the hangers-on,” his mom continued.

“The what?”

“Do you call them groupies?”

“I don’t know any groupies, Mom. There are more groupies in your world than there are in mine.”

“What on earth do you mean, dear?”

“At the tattoo conventions, there must be,” he said.

“You should go to a tattoo convention, Jack. Then you wouldn’t be so afraid.”

“I took you to the Inkslingers Ball,” he reminded her.

“Yes, but you wouldn’t go inside the Palladium,” she said.

“There was a motorcycle gang
outside
the Palladium!”

“You said it was bad enough to see a bunch of fake boobs at night—you weren’t going to hang around a bunch of fake boobs in broad daylight. That’s exactly what you said. Honestly, your
language—
”

“Mom—”

“That Brit you were with in London—she was as old as I am!” Alice cried. Jack watched her put honey in his tea.

The door to Queen Street opened and a little bell tinkled, as if Daughter Alice were a shop selling lace doilies or birthday cards. The girl who came in was suffering some kind of inflammation from her latest piercing; an object that looked like a cufflink made her lower lip stick out. She had a ball and chain attached to one eyebrow, which was shaved, but only her lower lip was inflamed.

“What can I do for you, dear?” Alice asked her. “I just made some tea. Would you like some?”

“Yeah, I guess,” the girl said. “I don’t usually do tea, but that’s okay.”

“Jack, fix the young lady some tea, please,” his mother said.

The girl was eighteen—maybe twenty, tops. Her dark hair was dirty; she was wearing jeans and a Grateful Dead T-shirt. “Shit, you look kinda like Jack Burns,” she told Jack, “except you look like a normal guy.”

Alice had put some music on—Bob, of course. “Jack is my son,” Alice told the pierced girl. “This
is
Jack Burns!”

“Oh, wow,” the girl said. “I’ll bet you’ve been with a lot of women, eh?”

“Not too many,” he told her. “Do you take honey in your tea?”

“Yeah, sure,” she said; she kept touching her sore-looking lower lip with the tip of her tongue.

“What sort of tattoo are you interested in, dear?” Alice asked her. (There was a sign in the window of Daughter Alice:
NO PIERCING.
The girl had to have come for a tattoo.)

The girl unzipped her jeans and hooked her thumbs under the waistband of her panties, exposing a fringe of pubic hair, above which a honeybee hovered. The bee’s body was no bigger than the topmost joint of Jack’s little finger; its translucent wings were a blur of yellow. The little bee’s body was a darker shade of gold.

“Gold is a tricky pigment,” Alice said—perhaps admiringly. Jack couldn’t tell. “I take a bright yellow and mix it with brick red, or you can use what they call English vermilion—same as mercuric sulfide. I mix that with molasses.” Jack was pretty sure this was three quarters fabrication. Alice would never tell just anyone how she made her pigments—especially a nonprofessional.

“Molasses?” the girl said.

“I cut it with a little witch hazel,” Alice told her. “It’s tricky to get a good gold.” Jack believed that the witch-hazel part was true.

The girl was looking at her honeybee with new eyes. “I got the bee in Winnipeg,” she told them.

“At Tattoos for the Individual, I suppose,” Alice said.

“Yeah, do you know those guys?” the girl asked.