They asked where I was staying, and, when I told them, one of the beards told us (first making us all agree that this would go no further) that a politician named Gary Hart and one of the Eagles were both doing drugs with Belushi when he died.
After that they told me that they were looking forward to the story.
I asked the question. “Is this for Sons of Man or When We Were Badd? Because,” I told them, “I have a problem with the latter.”
They looked puzzled.
It was, they told me, for I Knew the Bride When She Used to Rock and Roll. Which was, they told me, both High Concept and Feel Good. It was also, they added, Very Now, which was important in a town in which an hour ago was Ancient History.
They told me that they thought it would be a good thing if our hero could rescue the young lady from her loveless marriage, and if they could rock and roll together at the end.
I pointed out that they needed to buy the film rights from Nick Lowe, who wrote the song, and then that, no, I didn’t know who his agent was.
They grinned and assured me that that wouldn’t be a problem.
They suggested I turn over the project in my mind before I started on the treatment, and each of them mentioned a couple of young stars to bear in mind when I was putting together the story. And I shook hands with all of them and told them that I certainly would.
I mentioned that I thought that I could work on it best back in England.
And they said that that would be fine.
SOME DAYS BEFORE, I’d asked Pious Dundas whether anyone was with Belushi in the chalet, on the night that he died.
If anyone would know, I figured, he would.
“He died alone,” said Pious Dundas, old as Methuselah, unblinking. “It don’t matter a rat’s ass whether there was anyone with him or not. He died alone.”
IT FELT STRANGE to be leaving the hotel.
I went up to the front desk.
“I’ll be checking out later this afternoon.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Would it be possible for you to . . . the, uh, the groundkeeper. Mister Dundas. An elderly gentleman. I don’t know. I haven’t seen him around for a couple of days. I wanted to say good-bye.”
“To one of the groundsmen?”
“Yes.”
She stared at me, puzzled. She was very beautiful, and her lipstick was the color of a blackberry bruise. I wondered whether she was waiting to be discovered.
She picked up the phone and spoke into it, quietly.
Then, “I’m sorry, sir. Mister Dundas hasn’t been in for the last few days.”
“Could you give me his phone number?”
“I’m sorry, sir. That’s not our policy.” She stared at me as she said it, letting me know that she really was so sorry . . .
“How’s your screenplay?” I asked her.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“Well—”
“It’s on Joel Silver’s desk,” she said. “My friend Arnie, he’s my writing partner, and he’s a courier. He dropped it off with Joel Silver’s office, like it came from a regular agent or somewhere.”
“Best of luck,” I told her.
“Thanks,” she said, and smiled with her blackberry lips.
INFORMATION HAD TWO Dundas, P’s listed, which I thought was both unlikely and said something about America, or at least Los Angeles.
The first turned out to be a Ms. Persephone Dundas.
At the second number, when I asked for Pious Dundas, a man’s voice said, “Who is this?”
I told him my name, that I was staying in the hotel, and that I had something belonging to Mr. Dundas.
“Mister. My grandfa’s dead. He died last night.”
Shock makes clichés happen for real: I felt the blood drain from my face; I caught my breath.
“I’m sorry. I liked him.”
“Yeah.”
“It must have been pretty sudden.”
“He was old. He got a cough.” Someone asked him who he was talking to, and he said nobody, then he said, “Thanks for calling.”
I felt stunned.
“Look, I have his scrapbook. He left it with me.”
“That old film stuff?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Keep it. That stuff’s no good to anybody. Listen, mister, I gotta run.”
A click, and the line went silent.
I went to pack the scrapbook in my bag and was startled, when a tear splashed on the faded leather cover, to discover that I was crying.
I STOPPED BY the pool for the last time, to say good-bye to Pious Dundas, and to Hollywood.
Three ghost-white carp drifted, fins flicking minutely, through the eternal present of the pool.
I remembered their names: Buster, Ghost, and Princess; but there was no longer any way that anyone could have told them apart.
The car was waiting for me, by the hotel lobby. It was a thirty-minute drive to the airport, and already I was starting to forget.
The Price
1997
TRAMPS AND VAGABONDS have marks they make on gateposts and trees and doors, letting others of their kind know a little about the people who live at the houses and farms they pass on their travels. I think cats must leave similar signs; how else to explain the cats who turn up at our door through the year, hungry and flea-ridden and abandoned?
We take them in. We get rid of the fleas and the ticks, feed them, and take them to the vet. We pay for them to get their shots, and, indignity upon indignity, we have them neutered or spayed.
And they stay with us: for a few months, or for a year, or forever.
Most of them arrive in summer. We live in the country, just the right distance out of town for the city dwellers to abandon their cats near us.
We never seem to have more than eight cats, rarely have less than three. The cat population of my house is currently as follows: Hermione and Pod, tabby and black respectively, the mad sisters who live in my attic office and do not mingle; Snowflake, the blue-eyed long-haired white cat, who lived wild in the woods for years before she gave up her wild ways
