Like many kids, he lacked spine and judgment.
They shook hands. Wembley was wearing film-lot preppy: baggy Gap jeans and an oversized plaid button- down shirt that looked too warm for the weather and too expensive for his budget. A steel Rolex made Stu wonder even more.
The kid looked even thinner than last year, had a bony, somewhat androgynous face fit for a Calvin Klein ad. Pimples on his cheeks. That was new.
The palm Stu grasped was soft and cold and wet. Sweat beaded Wembley’s unlined forehead. Too-warm shirt. Long-sleeved shirt, buttoned at the cuffs.
And, of course, the eyes. Those pupils. Poor Scotty hadn’t learned a thing.
During Stu’s month on the set, Wembley had tried to get next to him, asking questions incessantly, wanting to know what the streets were really like. Because he was doing a screenplay, like everyone else, even though his real dream was to be Scorsese-directors had all the control.
Stu had answered him patiently, finding the kid a touching combination of Gen-X bravado and utter ignorance.
Then, the last Friday of the shoot, after working hours, he’d stuck around to finish some paperwork, using an empty soundstage as his office. Loud sighs brought him to a corner of the giant room, where he discovered Wembley huddled on the floor, half hidden by prop walls, a spike of heroin embedded in his arm.
The kid didn’t hear him approach, had his eyes closed, veins popping like angel-hair pasta on his long, skinny arm. The needle was one of those cheap plastic disposable things.
Stu said, “Scott!” sharply, and the kid’s eyes opened on a junkie’s worst possible scenario. Yanking out the needle, Wembley tossed it to the ground, where it plunked and spotted the concrete with milky liquid.
“Oh man,” said Stu.
Wembley burst into tears.
Moral conundrum.
In the end, Stu chose not to bust the kid, even though that was a clear violation of departmental regulations: “ Upon witnessing a felony…”
Pretended to believe Wembley when the kid insisted it was his first time, he was just experimenting. Two other puncture marks on Wembley’s arms proved otherwise, but both had the sooty look of old tracks, so at least the kid wasn’t mainlining regularly-yet. Stu confiscated the dope kit he found in the pocket of Wembley’s bomber jacket and tossed the works in a Dumpster on the lot-putting him in greater legal jeopardy than Wembley, but thank God the kid wasn’t smart enough to know that.
He drove Wembley to Go-Ji’s coffee shop on Hollywood Boulevard, plunked him down in a rear booth, and filled him full of strong, black coffee-technically, as much of a drug to Stu-then let the stupid kid glance around the putrid restaurant and see what advanced junkies looked like.
The load in the syringe must have been light, because Wembley was rattled and clear-eyed. Or maybe fear had out-adrenalized the opiate.
He ordered the kid a hamburger, forced him to eat while he delivered the requisite stern lecture. Soon, Wembley was mumbling sad biography-the horrors of growing up with affluent, multimarried Marin County parents who refused to set limits, post-college loneliness and alienation and fear of the future. Stu pretended to take it seriously, wondering if his own kids would be like that when they reached that age. By the end of an hour, Wembley was taking solemn vows of chastity, charity, and loyalty to the flag.
Stu drove him back to the studio. The kid looked ready to kiss him, almost girlishly grateful, and Stu wondered if he was gay, on top of everything else.
After that, Wembley avoided him on the set. It didn’t matter. Wembley was in his debt big-time, and if the kid didn’t drop out and move back home, he was someone Stu might be able to use one day.
And now the day had arrived. Ta dum!
“Good to see you, Scott.”
“You too.” The kid lied miserably. His mouth trembled and he sniffed. Red nose. Those eyes. Stupid little idiot.
“How’ve you been?”
“Great. What can I do for you, Detective?”
Stu put his arm around Wembley’s bony shoulder. “Actually, quite a bit, Scott. Let’s find somewhere to talk.”
He ushered Wembley to a bench and said, “I need information on Cart Ramsey. Discreet information.”
“All I know is what’s been on the news.”
“No rumors around the lot?”
“Why would there be?”
“Because no one gossips more than industry folk.”
“Well, if there is gossip, I haven’t heard it.”
“You’re telling me no one’s said anything about Ramsey?”
Wembley chewed his cheeks. “Just… whatever everyone else is saying.”
“Which is?”
“He did her.”
“Why do they say that, Scott?”
“He beat her up, right? Maybe he wanted to get back together and she said no.”
“That your theory or someone else’s?”
“Everyone’s. Isn’t it yours?” said Wembley. “Otherwise, why would you be here?”
“Does Ramsey have any sort of reputation?”
Wembley snickered. “Not as an actor-no. I don’t know shit about him. The whole thing doesn’t interest me.”
“Well,” said Stu. “Now it does, Scott. It interests you a lot.”
CHAPTER
19
I had a pretty good time today, getting that corn and being left alone. I’ll go back to Five, make some plans.
I head back toward the open fence, see someone waving.
The geeky grandparents. Standing right where the road curves off.
The old guy holds up his camera. They’re both waving, and the woman calls out, “Young man? Could you help us for a second?”
I don’t want to attract attention by running away or acting weird, so I go over to them.
“Hey, big fella,” says the guy. What a dork. He’s wearing a Dodgers T-shirt and shorts and socks and shoes and a light blue hat. His skin’s pink and he has a big lumpy nose, like the guys at the Sunnyside.
His camera is huge, in a big black case full of buckles and snaps, and his wife’s got one just like it.
“Sorry to bother you, my friend, but you seem like a nice guy,” he says, giving me a smile full of yellow teeth.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Polite,” she says, smiling. “Not everyone we’ve met is polite. I’m sure he can do it, honey.”
He clears his throat and taps his camera case. “This is a Nikon camera from Japan. My wife and I were wondering if you could do us a favor and take a picture of us, so we could have one together.”
“Sure.”
“Thanks a lot, son.” He reaches into his shorts and takes out a dollar bill.
“You don’t have to pay me,” I say.
“No, dear, we insist,” says the wife, and even though her eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, something changes on her face-just for a second, her mouth turns down. Like she’s sad. Full of pity. Like she knows I need the
