“He has no balance.”
“He has enough, and if not, you’ll make up for it. Robby is with you on this one. You’ll see, it’ll work 42 / SUSAN ISAACS
out. He’s really gung-ho. Anyway, it looks better if someone who isn’t your closest friend takes care of your brother. But listen, I have no objection if you want to sit in the background. Quietly.” He paused. “Is your brother, you know, a stable guy?”
“No. He’s a demented twit who took a .22 and blew Sy Spencer away because Sy had become his mentor-father figure and Easton has such a low sense of worth that anyone who respected him and helped him self-actualize was ipso facto worthless and had to die.”
I’m not bad. Easton is handsome. Although we resemble each other, I look like an Irish cop and he looks like an Episcopalian lawyer. In other words, my brother is a WASPier, more refined version of me: his eyes a truer blue, his jaw more squared-off, his hair shinier, plus he actually is six feet. I’m just a shade under, which has always annoyed me because girls—women—always ask “How tall are you?” and if I say six feet I feel like a fraud, but if I were to say five eleven and five-eighths, I’d feel like a buffoon.
Easton was standing in the gravel driveway, not far from the stairs that led to the front door. He wasn’t in one of his typical getups: a bright-colored blazer, or a pale-pastel sweater, looking more the leisured Southampton aristocrat than the real ones ever did. He was wearing a dark-gray suit with an impeccable paisley tie. His cordovan shoes, illumin-ated by the unobtrusive low beams that lit the circular driveway and entrance, were brighter than his face. Upset?
Even in the dim light I could see he was very upset. Skin waxy. Eyes red not so much from crying but, as I saw as I came up to him, from rubbing them, as if in disbelief.
“Hey, East,” I said. He jumped. “You okay?”
“Sorry. Do you know what’s so odd? Here I am, MAGIC HOUR / 43
actually waiting for you, hoping you were here, but my mind was going in ten different directions at once, and just now, when I heard your voice, my first thought was: What the hell is Steve doing at Sy’s house?”
“When did you hear about what happened?”
“When I got back from New York. I drove there today, to do some odds and ends for Sy, and when I got home, there was a call on my machine. From this perfectly awful film school type who’s his P.A. Production assistant. Something like: ‘Um, uh, you might wish to know that Mr. Spencer was, like, murdered at his home.’” All of a sudden Easton stopped talking. He got the shakes. “Damn. It’s nippy,” he managed to say. Like my mother, Easton used words like ‘nippy’ instead of ‘cold’ or ‘cool’ or ‘chilly,’ words to distinguish him from the proles. “Oh, good God.” He rubbed his arms, but it didn’t help. Then his teeth started to chatter, fast, like those stupid wind-up teeth in novelty stores.
“Did you speak to Sy today, East?”
“Last night.”
“Any indication of trouble?”
“No.”
“Had any threats been made against him that you know of?” He shook his head in answer—and in disbelief. “Do you have any reason to think he was afraid of anything, or anyone?”
“No.”
“Any change at all in his behavior?”
He couldn’t stop shaking. “He was fine, I’m telling you.”
For my brother, trembling was the absolutely perfect, tasteful way to fall apart: so proper. It didn’t make any noise, and unlike sweating or barfing, you could have your breakdown and then go right on to a cocktail party without messing up your clothes and having to change.
44 / SUSAN ISAACS
“They can get your statement tomorrow. Why don’t you go home? You look pretty shitty.”
“I don’t even know why I’m here.” He glanced up at the house. “Actually, I suppose I thought I should show up. In the back of my mind I was thinking: With all the chaos—police, God knows what else—maybe I can give Sy a hand. It’s an insane reaction, but Steve, I have to tell you, this is such a shock. I mean, to get that message.”
“It must have been a real kick in the nuts.”
“It knocked the wind out of my sails. I can’t believe it.
Who in God’s name would murder Sy?”
“Who do you think?”
“No one would want to kill him,” Easton announced. He was positive. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his New York City fancy pants.
“The facts seem to indicate otherwise, don’t they?”
“Probably a burglar.”
“No.”
“How do you know for sure?”
“What are you talking about? It’s my job to know.”
“And you’re never wrong, are you?”
As usual, after more than sixty seconds in each other’s company, we were into our regular sibling routine—being irritated by each other. I decided this was one time I should be unirritated. More than that. He was my brother. He was genuinely upset; I should be gentle.
“There doesn’t seem to be any evidence of a burglary attempt,” I said, as softly as I could.
“How was he killed?”
“Shot. From some distance. Most likely with something like a .22. It doesn’t look like an impulsive act.” We had a long moment of silence. “Listen, one of the other guys will interview you, probably tomorrow. Go on home.”
MAGIC HOUR / 45
He shivered again. “He was really good to me.”
“Yeah. Listen, I’m sorry. Oh, East, one more thing. Forget fights, threats. Did Sy give any indication that he was having problems with anybody?”
To give him credit, my brother really seemed to think about it. “I’ve only been working with him for three and a half months. I can’t set myself up as an expert. But from what I’ve seen, when you’re producing a movie, you have problems with everybody. You’re dealing with a cast and crew of a hundred prima donnas—and their agents, and their
