'It's not about the lawsuit.'
He didn't respond right away, and I didn't push it. Eventually he blew out a breath. 'It'd better not be. Two minutes.'
He hung up and I waited, my heart pounding. After a time he scampered in, giving a nervous glance around the empty restaurant. He slid onto the stool next to me with no greeting, none of the gruff conviviality cultivated by his stint in the marines.
'The only reason I'm here is because we both know you caught the raw end,' Jerry said. 'Keith is a prick and a liar. He tangled us all up. Be honest with you, I can't wait to get out of this racket.' An irritated gesture at the window and studio lot beyond. 'Get back to real security. An honest dishonest living.'
'I heard you guys just signed Keith for two more.'
'Yeah, but the idiot's doing some bullshit environmental documentary next. Mickelson tried to get him to wait until he had another hit under his belt, but it had to be now.' He smirked. 'I guess Mickelson told him the environment'll still be up shit creek in two years. I don't think that won him over.' His broad shoulders lifted, then fell. 'But he's with us after that.' He reached for my untouched glass of ice water and took a long sip. Peeked at his watch. 'So . . . ?'
'Someone's been messing with me. Videotaping me. Came into my house at night, even. I was thinking it might be someone from the studio going off the tracks. I know you're overseeing the investigative files. Anyone you think has taken an extracurricular interest?'
'No, man.' The relief was audible. 'Look, this lawsuit's a mess, but it's not anything they don't deal with all the time. It's business.'
'This business at least,' I said. His stare stayed level. Uninterested. 'So as far as you know,' I asked, 'no one here seems bent out of shape enough to want to make it personal?'
'As far as I know. And I know pretty far, Patrick. I monitor e-mails, sweep for bugs, interface with Legal, all that shit. You know how this type loves security. I'm the in-house tough guy and the good daddy all in one. Someone chips a nail, they call me bawling. A valet's gaze lingers on the wrong set of legs, I have to go have a conversation. That kind of bullshit. It's a complicated world now. But one thing's still like the old days--if they wanted you ruffled, I'd be the guy they'd call.'
I wasn't sure what I expected. Certainly Jerry wasn't going to come clean if the studio was running a harassment campaign. But I looked him in the eye and I believed him. Whatever was coming down on me, it wasn't studio business.
He glanced nervously at the door. 'Anything else?'
'Can you tell me Keith Conner's new address?'
'What do you think?' he said. I held up my hands. He asked, 'You really believe Keith Conner would sneak into your house?'
'Not personally, but he's got plenty of money and underlings and what looks like a vindictive streak. I need to talk to him.'
'I think that's the only thing his lawyers, your lawyers, and our lawyers all agree on. You don't talk to him. Ever.' He shoved back from the bar and walked out.
Chapter 12
'Is Keith Conner as hot in person?' Front row, blond, sorority sweatshirt. Shanna or Shawna.
'He is fairly handsome,' I said, pacing in front of the class, chewing gum to cover that nerve-settling morning scotch. Some tittering up and down the rows of stadium seating. Introduction to Screenwriting--you couldn't cross city limits without enrolling. 'Now, are there any questions about screenwriting?'
I glanced around. Several of the kids had digital camcorders on their writing tablets and atop their backpacks. Even more students typed notes on laptops equipped with embedded cameras. A guy in the middle used his phone to snap a picture of his buddy next to him. I tore my attention away from the myriad cameras and found a raised hand. 'Yes, Diondre.'
His question was something about talent versus hard work.
I'd been distracted all day, finding myself searching out hidden meaning in student remarks. During the break I'd gone through past assignments to note how many fails I'd handed out. Only seven. None of the students had seemed to take the grade personally. Plus, anyone who was doing poorly was still well within the deadline to drop the class, which had to cut the odds further that my stalker was an aggrieved student.
I realized I hadn't been paying attention to what Diondre was saying. 'You know what, since our hour and a half's up, why don't you stick around and we can get into that?' I made the little half-wave to dismiss class. You'd think it was an air-raid warning the way they dispersed.
Diondre lingered behind, clearly upset. He was one of my favorite students, a talkative kid from East L.A. who usually wore baggy Clippers shorts, a do-rag that even I knew to be dated, and a crooked smile that inspired immediate trust.
'You okay?'
A faint nod. 'My mama said I'll never make it, that I ain't no filmmaker. She said I'd just as soon be a Chinese acrobat. You think that's true?'
'I don't know,' I said. 'I don't teach Chinese acrobatics.'
'I'm serious. Man, you know where I'm from. I'm the first person in my family to finish high school, let a-lone go to college. All my relatives are up on my shit for studying film. If this is a waste of time, I gotta give it up.'
What could I say? That despite fortune cookies and inspirational posters, dreams aren't sufficient? That you can dig down and do your best but in real life that's still not always good enough?
'Look,' I said, 'a lot of this comes down to hard work and luck. You keep at it and keep at it and hope you catch a break.'
'Is that how you made it?'
'I didn't make it. That's why I'm here.'
'What do you mean? You done writing movies?' He looked shattered.
'For now. And that's okay. If there's one piece of advice I'd offer, and you shouldn't listen to it anyway, it's to be sure this is what you want. Because if you're pursuing this for the wrong reasons, you might get there and realize it's not what you thought it was.'
His face was pensive, empathetic. Pursing his lips, he nodded slowly, took a few backward steps toward the door.
'Listen, Diondre . . . I've been receiving some weird threats.'
'Threats?'
'Or warnings, maybe. Do you know of any students who'd want to mess with me?'
He feigned indignation. 'And you askin' me 'cuz I'm black and from Lincoln Heights?'
'Of course.' I held his stare until we both laughed. 'I'm asking you because you're good at reading people.'
'I dunno. Most of the students are fine with you, from what I've heard. You don't grade too hard.' He held up both hands. 'No offense.'
'None taken.'
'Oh.' He snapped his fingers. 'I'd watch out for that little Filipino kid. What's his name? Smoke-a- bong?'
'Paeng Bugayong?' A small, quiet kid who sat in the back row, kept his head down, and sketched. Figuring him for shy, I'd called on him once to draw him out, and he'd taken an aggressively long time before finally offering a one-word response.
'Yeah, that one. You seen that kid's drawings? All fucked-up beheadings and dragons and shit. We joke he gonna go V Tech up in here, you feel me?'
'V Tech?'
'Virginia Tech.' Diondre made a pistol of his hand and shot it around the empty chairs.
'In my day,' I said with a grimace, 'we called it 'postal.' '
'Goddamn it,' Julianne said. 'Someone broke the swing-out thing.'
'INCONSIDERATENESS ABOUNDS. AND THE FATE OF MR. COFFEE HANGS IN THE BALANCE.'
'Knock that shit off, Marcello. I'm getting a no-caffeine headache.'
He looked to me for support. 'One day they can't get enough, the next you're old news.'
