'Together.'
She smiled, then her mouth bent down, and then she wiped her cheeks and looked away again. We nodded at each other, almost shyly, and I withdrew back through the door to the garage.
Chapter 15
I brought Julianne a Starbucks from across the street, which I held before me like a sacrificial offering as I entered the faculty lounge. She and Marcello sat facing each other, but at different tables to maintain the pretense that they were working.
She regarded me warily. 'What do you want?'
'Cover my afternoon classes.'
'I can't. I don't know how to write a screenplay.'
'Right. You're the only person in Greater Los Angeles who actually knows she doesn't know how to write a screenplay. You're already overqualified.'
'Why can't you teach?' Julianne said.
'I have to look into some things.'
'You're gonna have to do better than that.'
'I'm going to talk to Keith.'
'Conner? At home? You have his address?' She clasped her hands with excitement, a girlish gesture that looked about as natural as a Band-Aid on Clint Eastwood.
'Not you, too,' I said.
'He is sort of dishy,' Marcello offered.
'Perfidy everywhere.'
'Why don't you just go see him after work?' Julianne said.
'I have to get right home.'
'Home?' she said. 'Home? To your beautiful wife?'
'To my beautiful wife.'
Marcello, in monotone: 'Halle-fuckin'-lujah.'
'That's all I get?'
'ON FEBRUARY'--Marcello checked his watch--'ELEVENTH, PATRICK DAVIS DISCOVERS THAT THE MOST IMPORTANT JOURNEY . . . IS THE ONE THAT TAKES YOU HOME.'
'That's more like it.' I waved the Starbucks cup in Julianne's direction, letting her attack-dog nose pick up the scent.
She eyed the cup. 'Gingerbread latte?'
I said, 'Peppermint'--she sagged a little with desire--'mocha.' Her head drooped wantonly. I walked over and extended the cup. She took it.
I heard her slurping contentedly as I walked out. Classes were in session, the halls empty. My footsteps seemed unnaturally loud without bodies there to absorb the echoes. As I went by each classroom, the voice of the teacher inside rose and fell like the whine of a passing car. Despite the full classrooms all around, or perhaps because of them, the preposterously long hall felt desolate.
There was a clap like a gunshot, and I jumped, my files spilling all over the floor. Wheeling around in a panic, I saw that the noise had been nothing more than a kid dropping his binder, which had struck the tile flat on its side. I mock-grabbed my chest and said, too loudly, 'You scared me.'
I'd intended it lightly, but it had come out angry.
The student, crouched over his binder, glanced up lethargically. 'Relax, dude.'
His tone got under my skin. I said, 'Hold on to your stuff better, dude.'
Two girls paused in the intersecting hall, rubbernecking, then scurried away when I glanced at them. A few students had collected at the far end also, by the stairwell. I was breathing hard from the scare, still, and from my reaction now. I knew I was handling this poorly, but my blood was up and I couldn't find my composure.
The kid nodded at my spilled papers. 'You, too'--he turned to walk away, coughing into a fist to mask his last word--'asshole.'
'What the hell did you just say to me?' My words rang down the corridor.
A teacher I vaguely recognized stuck her head through the doorway of the nearest classroom. Lines of disapproval notched her forehead between her eyebrows. I stared her back into her classroom, and when I refocused, the offending student had vanished into the stairwell. The others milled and gestured.
Embarrassed, I gathered my papers swiftly and left.
Chapter 16
Vast iron gates greeted me a mere two steps from the curb. A ten-foot stone wall ran the length of the property line. The only point of access was a call box with a button, mounted on a pillar beside the gate.
Though it was three o'clock--and February--the cold had given way to a hot snap, the sun harsh off the concrete. I was supposed to be in class discussing dialogue, not chasing down movie-star litigants.
Before I could push the call button, a screech jerked me around--a door rolling back on a beat-up white van at the opposite curb. The clicking of a high-speed lens issued from the dark interior. I froze, nailed to the pavement. Leading with a giant camera, a man emerged and walked deliberately toward me, snapping pictures as he came. He wore a black zipped hoodie pulled up so the camera blocked out his face; there was just a lens protruding from the hood like a wolf snout. I could see the dark amoeba of my reflection in the curved glass. My thoughts revved as he neared, but I was caught off guard, my reaction lagging.
Just when I'd balled my hand into a fist, the giant zoom lens lowered to reveal a sallow face. 'Oh,' he said, disappointed. 'You're not anybody.'
He'd mistaken my immobilization for apathy. 'How'd you know?'
'Because you don't give a shit if I take your picture.'
I took in his scraggly appearance, the multipocketed khaki shorts weighed down with gear, and finally put it together. 'National Enquirer?' I asked.
'Freelance. Paparazzi market's gotten tough. Have to sell where you can.'
'Conner's a big catch now, is he?'
'His price has gone up. Hype over the upcoming movie, you know, and the paternity suit.'
'I hadn't heard.'
'Some club skank. She threw up on Nicky Hilton, made her stock rise.'
'Ah. Got herself a media profile.'
'They're paying twenty grand for a clear shot of Conner doing something embarrassing. Nothing like a sleaze-success cocktail to stoke a bidding war.'
'Cocktails that stoke. I could use one.'
He looked at me conspiratorially. 'You a friend a' his?'
'Can't stand him, actually.'
'Yeah, he's a dickhead. Kneed me in the nuts outside Dan Tana's. Lawsuit pending.'
'Good luck with that.'
'Gotta get them to hit you, not the other way around.' He eyed me knowingly. 'He'll settle.'
I hit the button. Asian chimes. The crackle of static told me the line had gone live, though no one said anything. I leaned toward the speaker. 'It's Patrick Davis. Please tell Keith I need to talk to him.'
The guy said, 'That's your game plan for getting inside?'
The gates buzzed. I slipped through. He tried to follow, but I stood in the gap. 'Sorry. You need your own game plan.'
He shrugged. Then he flicked an ivory card from his wallet: Joe Vente. Below, a phone number. That was it.
I tilted it back at him. 'Spartan.'
'Call me if you want to sell out Conner sometime.'
'Will do.' I pulled the gate shut, making sure the lock clicked.
The Spanish Colonial Revival was spread out with no regard for the price of L.A. real estate. To my left, the row of garage doors was raised, presumably to vent the heat. Revealed inside were two electric coupes, plugged in, three hybrids, and various makes of alternative-fuel cars. A private fleet for conservation; the more you spend, the more you save. The front door, sized for a T-Rex, wobbled open. A waif, made waifier by the giant doorway, waited
