hoped he’d do it again. For one thing, he brought the food: coffee and egg sandwiches for him and Bernie, a nice fat sausage for me. Did we mind that his fingers were grease-stained? Not us. Some days you just hit the ground running; I knew this was going to be one of them.
We sat out on the patio, water gurgling from the swan fountain, steam rising from the coffee cups, not a care in the world, at least not on my part.
“What’s with the ice pack on your shoulder?” Nixon said.
“You don’t want to know,” Bernie said.
“Hope it was one of those you-should-see-the-other-guy dustups.”
“Wasn’t any kind of dustup.”
“Whatever you say,” said Nixon. He took a big bite from his sandwich, talked with his mouth full, saying something like “I read the script.” He tossed it on the table. “Guy who wrote it, Arn Linsky? They paid him a cool million.”
“How do you know that?”
“ Hollywood Reporter,” Nixon said. “He’s A-list. That’s what they get. Minimum.”
“So it’s good?”
Nixon shrugged. “Not claiming there aren’t good lines in it,” he said. He bit into his sandwich again, pawing- yes, just another nice thing about Nixon-pawing through the pages. “Like here, where Lolotea-she’s the shaman- says to Croomer-that’s Thad Perry’s character-‘I am unready to embrace the white man,’ and he says, ‘You could try closing your eyes.’”
“That’s good?”
“Guaranteed to get laughs. Plus it’s when he starts to appeal to her. And now you know there’ll be a hot scene with her and Thad Perry coming up. Heard who’s playing Lolotea?”
“Nope.”
“Kina Molenta,” Nixon said. “The brunette from Hothouse Flowers.”
“Didn’t catch that one,” Bernie said.
“It’s a TV show, not a movie,” Nixon said. “About strippers in a place called the Hothouse.”
“She’s playing an Apache shaman?”
“There are some-what’s the word?”
“Authenticity?” Bernie said.
“Yeah,” said Nixon, “authenticity issues you’re not going to like.”
“For instance?”
Nixon turned a page. “This part, where Croomer gets shot right through with an arrow, back to front, and then kills this other guy by falling on him so the same arrow goes-”
“For Christ sake.”
“It’s only a movie, like they say.”
Bernie gazed at the script. “Do the rivers flow?”
“Rivers?”
“The arroyos, the washes, the gulches-do they flow in the movie?”
“No,” Nixon said. “It’s dry as dust. They talk about that a lot. There’s even a scene where Lolotea takes one of those forked sticks and tries to-”
“Water flowed,” Bernie said. He put down his coffee-actually sort of banged it down, a tiny black wave slopping over the rim-and pointed to the canyon beyond our back gate. “Flowed right past where we’re sitting now.”
“Maybe you gotta pay two mil for that kind of detail,” Nixon said.
The phone rang while Bernie was shaving. Bernie hated shaving, didn’t do it every day, not even close- causing some problems, back in the Leda days-and he looked great shaved or not, in my opinion, except for that one camping trip where he’d ended up with an actual beard. Too much for me, and we’d had to drive into the nearest town, hardly even a day’s ride, for a disposable razor.
He hit the speaker button.
“How’s it goin’ so far?” said Rick Torres.
“Don’t like the script,” Bernie said.
“Yeah?” said Rick. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s not accurate.”
Silence. Then Rick said, “Don’t forget it’s a director’s medium. The script doesn’t mean squat. It’s what happens on the set and in the editing room.”
“They pay a million bucks for something that doesn’t mean squat?” Bernie said.
“That’s Hollywood.”
“How do you know all this?”
“It’s common knowledge,” said Rick. “Met Thad Perry yet?”
“Yup.”
“What’s he like?”
“You know,” Bernie said. “Just a guy.”
“Puts on his pants one leg at a time?” said Rick. “C’mon, Bernie. Help my marriage.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I told you-Marcie’s a big fan. She needs details. And don’t forget about that autograph.”
“Always the wife,” Bernie said. And then: “Ow.” Uh-oh. A fat drop of blood welled up on Bernie’s chin, trickled down. I wanted to lick it up, but sort of remembered Bernie not liking that when I’d tried it before, and all the other befores. Bernie cut himself shaving just about every time.
“Shaving?” said Rick.
“No,” Bernie said. “Can you check out twenty-four hundred sixty-three North Coursin Street, Vista City? Ownership, residents, the usual.”
“Bad neighborhood-I can tell you that right off the top of my head,” Rick said. “What’s the story?”
“Just following up on something,” Bernie said.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Rick said. “But nothing’s free in this world.”
“You’ll get the goddamn autograph,” Bernie said. He clicked off. “Chet! Down!”
Oops.
Soon after that, we were on the open road, headed up, up, and out of the Valley, passing the last development, then one more golf course, and into the desert. Rumble rumble went the engine, sending shudders through the whole car. Bernie slowed down a bit.
“Is that a new sound?” he said.
He tapped the gas pedal a couple of times. Va-vroom! Va-vroom!
“Wonder if it’s something to worry about.”
Of course not, Bernie. Couldn’t be better, our new ride. But on his face I could see that a bout of worrying was on the way, those tiny forehead lines growing deeper. The phone rang just in time.
“Bernie? Cal Luxton here, mayor’s office. How you doing?”
“Headed out to the set,” Bernie said.
“Seen it yet?”
“No.”
“You’re gonna be impressed,” Luxton said. “How’re things going with Thad Perry?”
“Good.”
“That’s what I hear,” Luxton said.
“From who?”
Luxton laughed. “Word gets around.”
There was a silence. The sky went from the dusty blue of the Valley to lovely pure blue. Hey! The moon! I’d forgotten all about that, seeing the moon in the daytime. What a treat! Nothing like a treat you eat, but pretty nice.
“Anything I can help you with,” Luxton was saying, “don’t hesitate.”
“Thanks.”
Another silence. “Any questions so far?” There was something… probing, yes, probing about his voice; kind of
