THE WEATHER WAS UNSEASONABLY BALMY, so we dined alfresco on the elegantly balustraded terrace of Max’s Bel-Air manse. Maddie had assembled a small but glittering group, all of whom heartily congratulated us and expressed their certainty that the picture would be a triumph, the first of many in the long, success-drenched careers that awaited us. The conversation was sparkling, the food superb, and the wines all of voting age at least.
After dinner, as the guests trickled into the salon, I lingered a moment on the terrace to admire the shimmering view. Maddie, swaying just a bit, sidled up to me.
“I can’t tell you how tickled I am that you kids are doing so great out here.”
“We’re pretty tickled ourselves.”
“I always knew you’d make good, honey. It’s like Mama used to say — the cream always rises to the top.”
I smiled in tacit assent, my superior butterfat content having been established beyond argument. I was standing on a mogul’s terrace. I had just dined with stars (how charming Warren and Annette were), I was writing for stars, I was living in a star’s house, and the most desired star of all had chosen me as his sexual confidante.
I chuckled inwardly to think that only weeks ago I’d been gripped by the outlandish fear that I was fated for a life of obscurity and men’s neckwear. How absurd of me to have imagined so paltry an existence would ever be mine! Never again would I doubt my destiny, my genius, my inherent God-given creaminess.
It was at this juncture I suppose that some Showbiz God, observing the scene below, turned and addressed a fellow Deity.
“That Cavanaugh.”
“What about him?”
“Getting a bit uppish.”
“Oh?” said his companion, gazing up distractedly from next year’s Oscar winner list. “You think so?”
“Yes. Definite signs of hubris.”
“Should we have someone in Retribution attend to him?”
The Showbiz God frowned pensively, then gazed down at the salon where Maddie, thanks to the hints I’d dropped, was “persuading” Claire and me to regale her guests with one of our witty show tunes. The God winced, then nodded decisively.
“Find out who handled Mike Ovitz. Put him on it.”
Eleven
IN RETROSPECT IT’S EASY TO SEE that it was not very shrewd of me to mock the LA district attorney. DAs, I knew, are notoriously proud, prickly sorts who do not appreciate snide comments directed at them in public cocktail lounges by saucy homosexuals. It’s just that Stephen, who’d never liked the man, was already twitting him and we’d been getting on so fabulously (me and Stephen that is, not me and the DA) that the tactful silence I’d maintained at the outset of their skirmish began to strike me as unsupportive. Wussy even. What, I asked myself, would D’Artagnan do if Aramis encountered some surly adversary in a tavern and swordplay ensued? Would he let out a manly “En garde!” and leap into the fray, or would he just sit on the sidelines gazing sheepishly into his Cosmopolitan? The former surely.
The problem, as I’d learn to my regret, is that DAs remember these things. They hold grudges. And this one, a Mr. Rusty Grimes, was renowned even among the fiercest of his brethren for the ruthlessness with which he pursued his vendettas.
Given the vast energy Rusty would subsequently devote to our downfall and destruction, it would be nice to at least be able to report that he was the most formidable foe to emerge in the course of my saga This was not, alas, the case. He was not even the most formidable foe to emerge in the course of that evening. For no sooner had Rusty slithered offstage than there sprang from the wings an altogether higher form of fend, one whose cold-blooded cunning, treachery, and ruthlessness would make Rusty seem by comparison like some gruff yet lovable curmudgeon, such as William Demarest endearingly portrayed in the films of Preston Sturges.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. “Foreshadowing,” we screenwriters call it—cutting away to the bloodshot eye peering up through the sewer grate so as to assure the more bloodthirsty in the house that gruesome doings await. Having done so, permit me please to digress briefly about the events preceding the dark moment when Fate popped its head into our Nemeses’ dressing rooms and yelled, “Places!” To be honest, I’m in no great hurry to usher them onstage.
Once there, you see, they never leave.
I HAVE OFTEN AND masochistically dwelled on the fact that the whole debacle might have been averted if, on the day before my date with Stephen, Gilbert had gotten home ten seconds later than he did. An extra traffic light might have saved us, or a longer line at the grocery. But no, he sauntered in precisely in time to hear the incoming message.
“Philip, this is Ashley in Sonia Powers’s office. Just confirming your dinner tomorrow with Sonia, Stephen, and Diana. Eight o’clock at Vici.”
“What was that?” he demanded suspiciously.
“Search me. She must have meant to call someone else.”
“Then why’d she say ‘Philip’?”
I replied that mine was not an uncommon name and that they might well be dining with the actor Philip Seymour Hoffman, Philip Roth, or the composer Philip Glass. Gilbert found this improbable.
“You fucking little weasel! You’re having dinner with Stephen and Diana and you weren’t even going to tell me?”
“Calm down! It’s about the book, okay? They just want an update.”
“Well, I’m coming!”
“Why? You’ve never even met Lily.”
“Who cares? The whole ghostwriter thing was my idea.”
“No it wasn’t!”
“I can’t believe you tried to squeeze me out of this! After all I went through to get us this job!”
“You retyped Casablanca! ”
“Do you know how long that took?!”
I protested a bit more but I knew it was useless. Nothing would persuade Gilbert to pass up a chance to be seen on the town with the Malenfants, and, as he knew when and where we were dining, he would be killed or be there. It was at least some consolation that he assumed, like the others, that we weren’t meeting till eight. He knew nothing of my earlier rendezvous with Stephen, nor would he.
I HADN’T FORGOTTEN MY promise to Stephen to ascertain how much plastique Lily and Monty were planning to affix to his closet door. On the morning of our dinner I arrived in Los Feliz bright and early, determined to Learn All.
Louise let me in, and I knew at once from her pious scowl that Monty had a “student” on the premises. I entered the dining room and found him breakfasting with a luscious young man in a white T and faded jeans that ft him like a pale blue rash. In contrast to Monty’s more louche consorts, this one had a sweet farm-boy look, with apple cheeks and tousled blond hair. He held an LA Times and was studying the comics page with the furrow-browed intensity of a Talmudic scholar.
“Lily might take a while to rouse herself this morning. Her old chum Connie’s visiting and they dined quite late, mostly on olives. This is Buster, Glen. He’s new in town. I’m showing him the ropes and he’s returning the favor.”
Not being accustomed to sadomasochistic ribaldry at the breakfast hour, I just stole a glance at Buster’s cantaloupe biceps and murmured hello.
“Hey,” said Buster. “S’up?”
“Refurl your tongue, Glen, and help yourself to a scone.”
“Should I, uh, clear out?” asked Buster.
“No need. Glen’s here to see Lily.”
“You a masseur?”
“Coauthor,” I replied evenly.
“My sister’s writing her memoirs and Glen has graciously consented to translate them into English.”
“Your sister doesn’t speak English?”
“No, she speaks it quite well and, may I add, constantly. It’s transferring it to paper that defeats her. If the Mafia wished to take out a hit on English prose, they could find no more capable an assassin.”
Monty launched into an extended riff on Lily’s failings as a prose stylist, failing to see that literary technique was not a topic like
ly to enthrall a boy who found Marmaduke a bit of a slog. Buster yawned and, grabbing a scone for the road, made his excuses and left.
“Been to the gym, have we?” said Monty, noting my bag.
“Every morning.”
“Lily tells me you’re a personal trainer.”
“Yes.”
“How personal?” he drawled and I laughed. His lewdness had come to strike me as both comical and quaint like the tiger growls Bob Hope dispensed indiscriminately to our gals in uniform.
“Not as personal as Buster, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I won’t hear a word against Buster. He doesn’t steal and he looks like his ad. One can ask for no more.”
It occurred to me that Lily’s absence might present an opportunity to pose some questions to him about Stephen that he might not answer as frankly in her presence.
“Can I ask you something, Monty?” I said, my tone intimate and perhaps a tad flirtatious.
“Anything you like,” he replied with an intrigued smile.
“Your nephew, Stephen—”
“Ah,” sighed Monty. His roguish smile vanished and he rolled his eyes. “You mean is he really gay?”
“How’d you know I was going to ask that?”
“My dear, it is all anyone ever asks me about Stephen. Especially the boys. The scoop on my nephew is the holy grail of gay gossip. I usually say ‘Ask him, ’ smiling all the while to make it clear that I know more than I’m telling, which never fails to make them buy me another drink. I don’t see why you’re asking though. I’ve already told you about the tennis pro and his borrowings from my embarrassingly extensive smut trove.”
I pointed out that this had been many years ago. What had Monty heard lately? Was he still playing for the home team or had he retired his jersey? Monty glanced enigmatically at his plate for a moment, then said, “Well, this is usually where I go all coy and suck noisily on the dregs of my Mojito. But, seeing as you’re practically family now — yes, he’s still gay.”
“He’s told you?”
“God, no. We’ve barely spoken in years.”
How did he know then, I asked, and Monty, smiling like the elegant woman of the world he was, replied, “Let’s just say we have mutual friends.”
An actual gasp is, of course, the highest tribute one can pay to a piece of gossip, and the one I let out with now topped even those Lily had regularly emitted in Zombie Luau.
“Friends like Buster?! ”
“Like uncle, like nephew. Of course,” he added, freshening my coffee, “our reasons for choosing the ‘buy-sexual’ route—you hear the pun —?”
“Yes, of course.”
“— couldn’t be more different. I’m simply bowing to the realities of the sexual marketplace. I like beautifully sculpted young men and they do not, alas, bestow their favors on dapper gentlemen over sixty unless compensated. For Stephen though, I think it’s all about fear.”
“Fear of what?”
“Well, he had that one boyfriend who ran to the tabloids. After that he got very worried about discretion and hoped he could buy it. The other advantage of hustlers, of course, is that they’re not, as a class, widely esteemed. If one seeks to expose you, he must first confess his profession, which hardly enhances his credibility. Stephen figures who’s the public going to believe—him or some youth whose résumé is rather long on fellatio?”
“So you’ve heard stories about Stephen from your... friends?”
“Scads. There’s Kyle and Justin and what’s his name with the unfortunate piercing...?”
“Recently?” I asked, agog.
“Not for a year or so. I’m told he had a close call with Kyle and a paparazzo. Threw a scare into him so he’s been a good boy lately.”
“My poor Stephen!” I thought. How dreadful to think that fear and a paramour’s betrayal had driven him into the loveless arms of male harlots! On the bright side though he hadn’t had dick in a year, which could only improve my chances.
“Dear God,” I said, my head spinning. “So Lily’s actually putting all this in the book?”
“Good heavens, no! Lily knows nothing about it. You don’t suppose I’d tell her?”
“I don’t know. You seem so close.”
“We are. We get on beautifully. And why? Because I tell her nothing she doesn’t want to know and because, as you’ve surely noticed, her capacity to ignore the obvious is nothing short of breathtaking. It is the whole secret of her happiness—and I thank you, Glen, for your chivalrous refusal to tamper with it.”
He laid a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“It’s endeared you to me, Glen. It has. You sit here day after day listening to her spout the most appalling drivel about her so-called glory days and respond with the most angelic tact. I’ve watched her sit here among her picture albums and make claims so outrageous the very photographs do spit takes. But you don’t even roll your eyes. It’s positively saintly of you, Glen, and that’s why I’ve told you what I just have. I lay my family’s dirty linen at your feet as my meager thank-you for your great kindness.”
As I noted earlier, if you’re going to infiltrate people’s homes and win their trust for the sole purpose of betraying it, it helps a great deal to dislike them. This is no simple task when they’re two old sweeties who shower you with praise and beatify you over breakfast. Monty’s tender tribute, coming on the very day I was to sup in the tents of the enemy, made all the guilt I’d quelled come flooding back, redoubled in strength. So it was no wonder that when Lily finally confided to me the details of her comeback project, I was powerless to refuse her request for assistance.
We were an hour into the day’s work when her friend Connie, a plump, salty old dame who’d played the gym teacher in Sorry, Miss Murgatroyd!, entered the dining room, clutching a well-thumbed manuscript.
“Oh, good,” smiled Lily, “you’ve started it.”
“I’m done, honey. Couldn’t put it down. And may I say you are a goddamned genius!”
“Did you really think so?”
I asked if it was the early chapters of the memoir. Connie said, “No, it’s her screenplay!”
“Screenplay?”
“It’s what I’ve been hinting to you about. I suppose I can tell you now. You’ve certainly proved you can be trusted! It’s a script I wrote especially for myself.”
“A historical epic,” gushed Connie, “with one helluva great part!”
“Really?” I asked Lily. “Who do you play?”
“Amelia Earhart!”
As Monty had pointed out, I’d grown skilled at politely absorbing statements that would induce involuntary backflips in others, but I could not restrain a certain widening of the eyes.
“I know what you’re thinking — that I’m too old for it. But I’m not. You see, my story takes place seven whole years after her plane disappeared.”
“She survived!” explained Connie. “On a tropical island.”
“But then she’s rescued by Portuguese fishermen. She makes her way to France, only it’s occupied now.”
“By Germans,” Connie added helpfully.
“She meets a dashing young freedom fighter and begins flying secret missions for the resistance while all France wonders who this daring mystery woman could be! I’m so glad you liked it, Connie! You didn’t find it a bit rough in spots?”
“Well, I wasn’t sure about a few historical things. But I’m sure you can get some help with that.”
On hearing the word “help” I gazed apprehensively at the light-bulb that had just materialized over Lily’s head. Why goodness, she exclaimed, the perfect critic was sitting right here. Would I be so gallant as to read her little effort and offer my thoughts?
Though unable to imagine a more gruesome task, I knew that the favor would assuage at least some of my festering guilt. I said I’d be honored and tucked it in my gym bag, suppressing a shudder as I glanced at the title, Amelia Flies Again!
DIANA NAMED HER RESTAURANT Vi
ci in honor of her late husband, Stephen’s father, the man who’d “conquered” her heart. The place is a posh trattoria decorated with black-and-white photos of the late Roberto, and it serves hearty “peasant fare” at prices that make you wonder if it wouldn’t be cheaper to just buy your own peasant and throw an apron on him. It’s popular with both Diana’s aging contemporaries and that segment of young Hollywood that finds it amusingly ironic to hang out with the Steve and Eydie set. Diana herself, though normally loath to dine in public, knows that the chance of sighting her is one of the few reasons people tolerate its lackluster food and larcenous prices, so she keeps its heat simmering with periodic appearances. Once a year she dons an apron and plays waitress, a shrewd stunt that never fails to keep the small $30 pizzas moving briskly.
I arrived early, found a corner booth in the dimly lit bar, and settled in. I expected a longish wait, but Stephen strolled in five minutes later in tandem with the thickset unsmiling bodyguard who accompanied him on all forays into public arenas.
It was only the second time I’d seen him in the flesh, and faced once more with his astonishing perfection, I could only stare open-mouthed, little lust bombs exploding in my chest. I hastily composed my features into a more decorous expression and waved to him. He saw me and flashed a smile that hit me like a heart-seeking missile. There were a dozen or so industry types arrayed about the bar and though they seemed as blasé a crowd as ever yawned its way through a Golden Globes, not one could help staring as he passed by. The bartender, poor lad, gawked so helplessly that he poured a martini right onto Christina Ricci’s cigarette.
I rose to greet him and was pleasantly astonished to find myself on the receiving end of a full-fledged hug with cheek brush.
He murmured into my ear.