The Informers Read online

  "You're not friends with my parents," Martin says, his grin faltering slightly.

  "No, I only play tennis with your mother twice a week."

  "Boy, I wonder who wins those matches." He rolls his eyes. "I don't want to talk about my mother." He tries to kiss me. I push him off and he lies there and touches himself and mumbles the lyrics to another Beach Boys song. I interrupt him.

  "Do you know that I have a hairdresser named Lance and Lance is a homosexual? I believe you would use the term 'a total homosexual.' He wears makeup and jewelry and has a very bad, affected lisp and he is constantly telling me about his young boyfriends and he is just extremely effeminate. Anyway, I went to his salon today because I have to go to the Schrawtzes' party tonight and so I walk into the salon and I tell Lillian, the woman who takes the appointments down, that I have an appointment with Lance and Lillian said that Lance had to take the week off and I was very upset and I said, 'Well, no one told me about this,' and then, 'Where is he? On a cruise somewhere?' and Lillian looked at me and said, 'No, he's not on a cruise somewhere. His son died in a car accident near Las Vegas last night,' and I rescheduled my appointment and walked out of the salon." I look over at Martin. "Don't you find that remarkable?"

  Martin is looking up at the ceiling and then he looks over at me and says, "Yeah, totally remarkable." He gets up off the bed.

  "Where are you going?" I ask.

  He pulls on his underwear. "I have a class at four."

  "One you actually go to?"

  Martin zips up faded jeans and throws on a Polo pullover and slips his Top-Siders on and as I sit on the edge of the bed, brushing my hair, he sits next to me and with a bovish smile spread wide across his face asks, "Baby, could I please borrow sixty bucks? I gotta pay this guy for these Billy Idol tickets and I forgot to go to the Instateller and it's just really a hassle. . . ." His voice trails off.

  "Yeah." I reach into my purse and hand Martin four twenties and he kisses my neck and says perfunctorily, "Thanks, baby, I'll pay you back."

  "Yes, you will. Don't call me baby."

  "You can let yourself out," he calls as he opens the door.

  The Jaguar breaks down on Wilshire. I am driving and the sunroof is open and the radio is on and suddenly the car jerks and begins to pull to the right. I step on the gas pedal and press it to the floor and the car jerks again and pulls to the right. I park the car, crookedly, next to the curb, near the corner of Wilshire and La Cienega, and after a couple of minutes of trying to start it again I pull the keys out of the ignition and sit in the stalled Jaguar on Wilshire with the sunroof open and listen to traffic passing. I finally get out of the car and find a phone booth at the Mobil station on the corner of La Cienega and I call Martin, but another voice, this time a girl's, answers and tells me that Martin is at the beach and I hang up and call the studio but I am told by an assistant that William is at the Polo Lounge with the director of his next film and even though I know the number of the Polo Lounge I don't call. I try the house but Graham and Susan are not there either and the maid doesn't even seem to recognize my voice when I ask her where they are and I hang the phone up before Rosa can say anything else. I stand in the phone booth for close to twenty minutes and think about Martin pushing me off the balcony of his apartment in Westwood. I finally leave the phone booth and I have someone at the gas station call the auto club and they arrive and tow the Jaguar to a Jaguar dealership on Santa Monica where I have a humbling conversation with a Persian named Normandie and they drive me back to my house where I lie on the bed and try to sleep but William comes home and wakes me up and I tell him what happened and he mutters "Typical" and says that we have a party to go to and that things will be bad if I don't start getting ready.

  I am brushing my hair. William is standing at the sink, shaving. He has only a pair of white slacks on, unzipped. I am wearing a skirt and a bra and I stop brushing my hair and put on a blouse and then resume brushing my hair. William washes his face, then towels it dry.

  "I got a call at the studio yesterday," he says. "A very interesting call." Pause. "It was from your mother, which is a strange thing. First of all because your mother has never called the studio before and second of all because your mother doesn't particularly like me."

  "That's not true," I say, then burst out laughing.

  "You know what she told me?"

  I don't say anything.

  "Oh come on, guess," he says, smiling. "Can't you guess?"

  I do not say anything.

  "She told me that you hung up on her." William pauses. "Could this be true?"

  "What if it could?" I put the brush down and put more lipstick on but my hands are shaking and I stop trying and then I pick up the brush and begin brushing my hair again. Finally, I look up at William, who is staring at me in the mirror across from mine, and say, simply, "Yes.”

  William walks to the closet and picks out a shirt. "I really thought you hadn't. I thought maybe the Demerol was getting to her or something," he says dryly. I start to brush my hair in fast short strokes.

  "Why?" he asks, curious.

  "I don't know," I say. "I don't think I can talk about that."

  "You hung up on your own fucking mother?" He laughs.

  "Yes." I put the brush down. "Why are you concerned?" I ask, suddenly depressed by the fact that the Jaguar might be in the shop for close to a week. William just stands there.

  "Don't you love your mother?" he asks, zipping his pants, then buckling a Gucci belt. "I mean, my God, she's dying of cancer for Christ sakes."

  "I'm tired. Please. William. Don't," I say. "What about me?" he asks.

  He moves to the closet again and finds a jacket.

  "No. I don't think so." These words come out clearly and I shrug. "Not anymore."

  "What about your goddamned children?" He sighs. "Our goddamned children."

  "Our goddamned children. Don't be so boring." "I don't think so," I say. "I'm . . . undecided."

  "Why not?" he asks, sitting on the bed, slipping on loafers. "Because I . . .” I look over at William. "I don't know . . . them."

  "Come on, baby, that's a cop-out," he says derisively. "I thought you were the one who said strangers are easy to like."

  "No," I say. "You were and it was in reference to fucking."

  "Well, since you don't seem to be too attached to anyone you're not fucking, I'd think we'd be in accord on that score." He knots a tie.

  "I'm shaking," I say, confused by William's last comment, wondering if I missed a phrase, part of a sentence.

  "Oh Christ, I need a shot," he says. "Could you get the syringe—the insulin's over there." He points, removes the jacket, unbuttons his shirt.

  As I fill a plastic syringe with insulin, I have to fight off the impulse to fill it with air and then plunge it into a vein and watch his face contort, his body fall to the floor. He bares his upper arm. I stick the needle in and I say, "You fucker," and William looks at the floor and says, "I don't want to talk anymore," and we finish dressing, in silence, then leave for the party.

  And driving on Sunset with William at the wheel, a glass of' vodka nestled between his legs and the top down and a warm wind blowing and an orange sun setting in the distance, I touch his hand on the wheel and he moves it to lift the glass of vodka to his mouth and as I turn away and we pass Westwood, up, above it, I can actually see Martin's apartment flash by.

  After we drive up through the hills and find the house and after William gives the car to the valet and before we walk toward the front entrance, with a crowded bank of photographers lined up behind a rope, William tells me to smile.

  "Smile," he hisses. "Or at least try to. I don't want another picture like that last one in the Hollywood Reporter, where you just stared off somewhere else with this moronic gaze on your face."

  "I'm tired, William. I'm tired of you. I'm tired of these parties. I'm tired."

  "The tone of your voice could have fooled me," he says, taking my arm roughly. "Just smile, okay? j
ust until we get past the photographers, then I don't give a fuck what you do."

  "You . . . are . . . awful," I say.

  "You're not much better," he says, pulling me along.

  William talks to an actor who has a new movie opening next week and we are standing next to a pool and there is a very young tan boy with the actor and he's not listening to the conversation. He stares into the pool, his hands in his pockets. A warm black wind comes down through the canyons and the blond boy's hair stays perfectly still. From where I'm standing I can see the billboards, tiny lit rectangles, on Sunset, illuminated by neon streetlights. I sip my drink and look back at the boy, who is still staring into the lit water. There is a band playing and the soft, lilting music and the light coming from the pool, tendrils of steam rising from it, and the beautiful blond boy and the yellow-and-white-striped tents that stand on a long, spacious lawn and the warm winds cooling and the palm trees, the moon outlining their fronds, act as an anesthetic. William and the actor are talking about the rock star's wife who tried to drown herself in Malibu and the blond boy I'm staring at turns his head away from the pool and finally begins to listen.

  4

  IN THE ISLANDS

  I am watching my son through a mirrored window from the fifth floor of the office building I own. He is standing in line with someone to see Terms of Endearment which is playing across the plaza from where I work. He keeps looking up at the window I am standing behind. I'm on the phone with Lynch and he's talking about the finalities of a deal we worked on last week in New York even though I'm not listening to him. I stare through the glass, relieved that Tim can't see me, that we can't share a wave. He and his friend just stand there waiting for the line to be let in. His friend—I think his name is Sam or Graham or something—looks a lot like Tim: tall and blond and tan, both wearing faded jeans and red USC sweatshirts. Tim raises his eyes to the window again. I put my hand up to surprisingly cool glass and hold it there. Lynch says that since it's Thanksgiving maybe I would like to join O'Brien, Davies and him down in Las Cruces and do some fishing this weekend. I tell Lynch that I'm taking Tim to Hawaii for four days. Graham whispers something in Tim's ear and Graham's movement and subsequent grin seem almost lascivious to me and the idea that they are sleeping together passes and Lynch says maybe he'll talk to me after I get back from Hawaii. I hang up, taking my hand off the window. Tim lights a cigarette and looks up at my window again. I stand there, staring down at him, wishing he wouldn't smoke. Kay calls from her desk, "Les? Fitzhugh's on line three," and I tell her I'm not here and I stand at the window until the line goes in and Tim disappears through the lobby doors and when I leave the office early, around four, and I'm in the underground parking garage, I lean against a silver Ferrari and loosen my tie, my hands trembling with the effort it takes to unlock the car's door, and then I'm driving away from Century City.

  I have repacked the one major piece of luggage I'm taking many times, uncertain of what to bring even though I have been to the Mauna Kea often, but tonight, right now, I'm having trouble. I should have something to eat—it's after nine—but I'm not too hungry due to Valium I took earlier this evening. In the kitchen I find a box of Triscuits and tiredly eat three. The phone rings while I'm rearranging the suitcase, refolding a couple of dress shirts.

  "Tim doesn't want to go," Elena says.

  "What do you mean, Tim doesn't want to go?" I ask.

  "He doesn't want to go, Les."

  "Let me talk to him," I ask.

  "He's not here."

  "Let me talk to him, Elena," I say, relieved.

  "He's not here."

  "I've made reservations. You know how goddamned hard it is to get reservations at the fucking Mauna Kea during Thanksgiving?"

  "Yes. I do."

  "He's going, Elena, whether he wants to or not."

  "Oh, Les, for God's sake—"

  "Why doesn't he want to go?" I ask.

  Elena pauses. "He just doesn't think he'll have a good time."

  "He doesn't want to go because he doesn't like me."

  "Oh damn it, Les, stop feeling sorry for yourself," she says, bored. "That's . . . not true."

  "Then what is it?"

  "It's just that-"

  "It's just what? It's just what, Elena?"

  "It's just that . . . he's probably uncomfortable about . . .” Elena phrases the rest of this sentence carefully: "the two of you going away together, since you've never been away together. Alone."

  "I want to take my son to Hawaii for a couple of days, without his sisters, without his mother," I say, then, "Jesus, Elena, we never see each other."

  "I understand that, Les, but he's nineteen, for God's sake," she says. "If he doesn't want to go with you I can't force him—"

  "He doesn't want to go because he doesn't like me," I say loudly, cutting her off. "You know that. I know that. And I know damn well he put you up to this call."

  "If you really think this, then why are you taking him anyway?" Elena asks. "Do you think three days are going to change anything?"

  I refold another shirt and put it back in the suitcase, then I sit on the bed, hard.

  "I hate to be put in the middle like this," she finally says, admits.

  "Damn it," I scream. "He shouldn't put you there."

  "Don't yell."

  "I don't give a shit. I'm picking him up tomorrow at ten-thirty whether the little bastard wants to go or not."

  "Les, don't yell."

  "Well, it pisses me off."

  "I don't"—she stammers—"I don't want to do this now. I'm getting off. I hate to be put in the middle."

  "Elena," I warn. "You tell him he's going. I know he's there. You tell him he's going."

  "Les, what are you going to do if he really decides not to go?" she asks. "Kill him?"

  In the background, in their house, in her bedroom, a door slams. I hear Elena sigh, heavily. "I don't want to do this. I don't want to be put in the middle. Do you want to talk to the girls?"

  “No," I mutter.

  I hang up the phone, then walk out onto the balcony of the penthouse with the box of Triscuits and stand next to an orange tree. Cars move along a freeway, one line of red, another moving strip of white, and after the anger brushes past, I'm left with a feeling of caring that seems strangely, hopelessly artificial. I call Lynch to tell him that I'll join him and O'Brien and Davies in Las Cruces but Lynch's girlfriend answers and I hang up.

  The limousine picks me up from my office in Century City at ten o'clock. The chauffeur, Chuck, puts my two bags in the trunk after opening the door for me. On the way to Encino to pick up Tim, I pour myself a Stoli, straight, on the rocks and am embarrassed by how quickly I drink it. I pour myself another half glass with a lot of ice and slip a Sondheim) tape into the stereo and then I sit back and look out the tinted windows of the limousine as it crawls up through Beverly Glen toward the house in Encino where Tim stays while off from school at USC.

  The limousine pulls up in front of the large stone house and I spot Tim's black Porsche, which I bought him for barely graduating from Buckley, sitting by the garage. Tim opens the front door of the house, followed by Elena, who waves uncertainly at the darkened windows of the limo and then walks hurriedly back into the house and closes the door.

  Tim, wearing a plaid sports jacket, jeans and a white Polo shirt, holding two pieces of luggage, walks up to Chuck, who takes the suitcases and opens the door for him. Tim smiles nervously as he gets in.

  "Hey," he says.

  "Hi, Tim, how ya doin'?" I ask, slapping his knee.

  He jerks, keeps smiling, looking tired, trying not to look tired, which makes him look even more tired.

  "Um, good, I'm fine." He stops for a moment, then asks, somewhat clumsily, " Um, how are, um, you?"

  "Oh, I'm okay." I'm smelling something strange, almost herbal, coming off his jacket and I picture Tim in his room, sitting on his bed, this morning, smoking marijuana from a pipe, gathering blind courage. I hope he has not brou
ght any with him.

  "This is ... great," he says, looking around the limousine. I don't know what to say so I ask him if he wants a drink. "No, that's all right," he says.

  "Aw come on, have a drink." I'm pouring myself another vodka on the rocks.

  "It's okay," he says, this time less steadily.

  "I'll pour you one anyway."

  Without asking him what he wants I pour him a Stoli on the rocks. "Thanks," he says, taking the glass, sipping from it cautiously as if it were poisoned.

  I turn the stereo up and sit back and put my feet on the seat across from me.

  "Sooo, what are vou up to?" I ask.

  "Not too much."

  "Yeah?"

  "Um, when does the plane leave?"

  "Twelve sharp," I say casually.

  "Oh," he says.

  "How's the Porsche running?" I ask after a while.

  "Um, good. It's running good," he offers, shrugging.

  "That's good."

  "How's . . . the Ferrari?"

  "Good, though you know, jeez, Tim, it seems like kind of a waste having it in the city," I say, shaking my glass, rattling the ice. "I can't drive it that fast."

  "Yeah." He considers this, nodding.

  The limousine pulls onto the freeway and begins to pick up speed. The Sondheim tape ends.

  "Do you wanna hear something?" I ask.

  "What is it?" he asks nervously.

  "No. Do you want to play some music?"

  "Oh." He thinks about this, flustered. "Um, no. Whatever you want to, um, hear is fine."

  I know he wants to hear something so I turn on the radio and find a hard-rock station.

  "Wanna hear this?" I ask, smiling, turning the volume up.

  "Whatever," he says, looking out the window. "Sure."

  I do not like this music at all and it takes a lot of effort and another glass of vodka not to put in the Sondheim tape. The vodka is not working as I hoped.

  "Who is this?" I ask, gesturing toward the radio.

  "Um, I think it's Devo," Tim says.

  "Who?" I heard him.

  "A group called Devo."

  "Devo?"