A Pagan's Nightmare (20 page)

With the spotlights shown at just the right angle, the result was startling. At night and from a distance, the effect was
of four men of varying height in the midst of painting a wall. MC being the tallest at six-feet two, Ned and The Former Donald
the shortest at five-nine, and Lanny somewhere in the middle.

They left the buckets, the brushes, and the little red wagon on the sidewalk and ran down the street, heading the opposite
direction from the dark and dank room. Past a dilapidated school and more graffiti—“Cuba Libre!” spray-painted on three consecutive
store
fronts—then past a basketball court and two cats on a fence, the men ran sweating into the night.

“Left now,” whispered the Former Donald, running in a threesome with Lanny and MC.

DJ Ned trailed behind, panting. The next street was even darker than the last, and though the men all listened for the sound
of sirens, none blared.

Ahead lay Castro’s compound. Beyond that was the bay. Nearly out of breath from the long run, the foursome was relieved to
see that the fence bordering the estate, instead of being barbed wire, was stone and masonry, perhaps seven feet in height.
They stood panting, hands on hips, surprised to see an auctioneer’s sign propped against the wall. The top half was written
in Spanish, the bottom in English:

“Does this make anyone feel bad about stealing the yacht?” Lanny asked, one hand already atop the wall.

“Nah,” Ned whispered, “They can still auction it off from the States when they find it. They’ll get higher bids there anyway.”

Lanny was first up the wall—with a boost from MC. He helped the others over, they pulled him by the arms, and together they
ran across acres of manicured lawn.

“Castro must have a thing for Bermuda grass,” said the Former Donald, as if anyone cared.

They stopped and knelt in the grass when they thought they heard a siren. But it was just an electronic keyboard, sounding
from the area of the guard quarters.

On their bellies now, the foursome crawled across the lawn, past a cobblestone driveway and a military jeep, then to the low
stone wall on the waterfront. A long wooden pier extended out to the
yacht. Midway down the pier, a single yellow light shone from atop a pole, and a pair of gulls sat in slumber on the railing.

The bay appeared tepid and motionless, almost innocent. Nervously glancing over their shoulders, MC Deluxe and DJ Ned waited
for the Former Donald to tell them what to do next.

Lanny, however, was already running down the pier.

Two blocks off Rodeo Drive, I entered the plush., long-windowed office of producer Mylan Weems. A very blonde and very polished
secretary had just shown me in. “Mylan is a busy man,” she whispered on her way out.

He was on the phone, so we exchanged nods. I sat in his guest chair—mahogany, I think. I glanced first out his windows at
sundrenched Los Angeles, then at his awards displayed prominently along a burgundy wall, gallery lighting to boot. He kept
talking and smiling and switching the phone from ear to ear. For the next ten minutes I watched business being done the California
way: Showy, classy, and with glimmers of attitude.

I felt out of place. On one side of that opulent desk sat this producer, a man of gray hair and handsome wrinkles etched from
decades of big deals and big dollars. And on the other side, Ned Watson of Atlanta, a man of slight paunch, formed from too
many donuts and Saturday afternoon bar-b-ques. For all of her strange ways, Angie made a killer bar-b-que.

I was intimidated, and I think Mylan knew it;even before he hung up and introduced himself, he knew it.

After he’d shaken my hand and we’d settled into our seats, he began with compliments. My previous experience with producers
had led me to believe they usually began in this manner. “Great tie, Nick. I, too, love orange.”

“It’s Ned.”

“Right, sorry.” A slight blush. He picked up a stack of paper from his desk, Larry’s title page on top. He thumped it in the
center. “Ned, I was interested after the first chapter, very interested after six. Then last week, as I was reading the reform
school thing, well—” he picked up a silver-framed picture from his desk and turned it so that I could have a look. It was
the producer and his wife at the Oscars, posing with Jane Seymour and Kate Winslet. “Your manuscript
may never capture this kind of attention, but someday there might be potential for something low-budget.”

Nervous, I nodded at his prized picture. “Yessir. I don’t expect for this to—” I was choking. “But I feel like it has at least
some
potential. My wife, however, she—”

“Protested, right?” He sat the picture back on his desk and smiled at it. “You told me about her over the phone. Is this going
to be a problem?”

I figured that’s why he began with compliments, so that he could ease into his concerns over Angie starting some kind of grassroots
protest. “I doubt it. She’s just a bit reactionary… a Southern Baptist.”

“And yourself?”

“I’m not reactionary at all.”

“I meant are you a Southern Baptist?”

Nerves and fear and guilt all assembled at once in my head. Would confessing this small detail make or break a deal? Nah,
I’d play it straight. Perhaps a smidgen of vaguery, just to be safe. “Maybe once a month. You know, to keep the wife happy.”

He nodded, smoothed his thick gray hair. “Ned, the last thing we’d want, if we were to commit to the project, would be some
kind of grassroots protest forming out of the Bible Belt.”

Maybe the guy is a mind reader.
“I guess it might depend on the ending, Mr. Weems.”

His eyes widened and he snapped his fingers. “That’s the other thing I wanted to mention. This manuscript I read doesn’t contain
an ending to speak of. Am I missing some pages?”

“No, sir. Larry Hutch is writing the ending this week.”

He sat up, tapped his fingers on his desk, adjusted his framed picture again. “I’d like to read that ending as soon as possible.
But you do know that Hollywood likes to invent their own endings.…”

“Yes, but perhaps we should see what Larry comes up with.”

He thumbed the pages, chewed his bottom lip. “Yes… perhaps.” He had avoided all mention of monies and deal points, and I knew
better than to push. And yet, he’d paid for my plane ticket to come
out and meet with him, so I figured he was somewhat serious. Plus, he looked like he wanted to say something. “Before I get
to required deal points, and what we might be able to offer, I’d first—”

His secretary buzzed in.

Mylan checked his caller I.D. and covered the receiver with his hand. “Ned, my medieval drama is about to start shooting in
New Zealand. This one has me by the throat. A-list actors, big budget, the works.… I’m sure you understand.” He gestured toward
his door. “Mind waiting outside?”

“Of course.” I rose from my chair and took two steps back. “I’ll just, um, wait in the lobby.”

He picked up his phone with his left hand, offered a brief wave with his right. No eye contact;he was staring out his middle
window at L.A. in all its palm-treed splendor. I opened his door and glanced one last time. He was smiling at his fair city
and switching his phone from ear to ear.

Out in the lobby I sat alone and checked my cell phone for messages. One from Angie, six from Larry. I knew what Larry wanted—an
update. Angie, however, had left the kind of message that was a rarity for her—an apology. Of sorts. I listened to it a second
time.
“Ned, perhaps I overreacted. Okay, I’m sure I did. But I have some news: I just found out that the church is under budget,
so I thought I would humor you with what one of the ladies in my women’s group suggested. She suggested that I urge you to
get Larry to tone things down a bit so thatgou could cut a big deal for his work and we could tithe generously. Sixteen of
twenty women
—
all of them protestors
—
thought this a great idea, but I hope you’ll be pleased to know that I was not one of the sixteen. Is it possible that this
women’s group is my own double-bogey? A bad influence? Anyway, I’m a mess today. I’ll pick you up outside the United terminal
at 6:35 tomorrow evening.”

Tithe generously? I’d flown to California, only to discover that my wife was hanging out with fruitcakes.

I folded my phone and set it back in my briefcase. I had the briefcase open at my feet, digging for a pen, when I noticed
that a pair of
rather long legs were occupying the seat next to me. These legs were muscular and toned and covered in black fishnet stockings.

I sat back in my chair and felt the stranger staring at me.

I glanced to my right. She was taller than me, had bigger arms than me, and wore a tight yellow skirt and blouse. Her hair
was large and platinum. Her eyelashes could have doubled as a broom.

She noticed that I’d noticed. Then she nodded and smiled.

I nodded and noticed her very broad shoulders. Too broad. Much too broad for a broad.

She batted those eyelashes, crossed her fishnet legs. “Your suspicions are correct, sir,” she said, kicking her leg up and
down.

Was everyone in Hollywood so perceptive and direct?
I turned uncomfortably in my chair. “You’re a—”

“Yes, that’s correct.” She fluffed her thick hair and glanced at her nails. “But don’t worry, I’m harmless. Mylan just asked
me to try out for a part.”

“For the dark medieval movie being shot in New Zealand?”

“No, a sci-fi thriller in the wine country.”

“Ah.”

Small talk was over, and she picked up a pair of magazines from the coffee table.

Gender confusion rocked my brain. I had never sat beside, or spoken with, a cross-dresser. During the ensuing minutes, as
I sat silently staring at the floor, I decided that I could do it—I could muster the energy to treat this person like anyone
else. I was too reserved for a formal introduction, however, so I decided that I’d assign her some kind of neutral name in
my mind, something like Lynn.

Lynn tossed a
Hollywood Insider
and the latest issue of
People
down on the coffee table.

I felt her staring.

“What is that?” she asked next. “Are you a screenwriter?”

“An agent.”

Lynn leaned a few inches closer, looking at the papers in my lap. “Must be good stuff if Mylan Weems wanted to see it.”

“I believe it’s decent,” I replied, trying my best to be humble. “Wacked but decent.”

Lynn admired her nails for a long minute. She reached inside her blouse and adjusted something, then something else, then
turned her attention back to me. I could feel her staring over my shoulder.

“Mind if I…”

“Read?”

She checked her watch. “Yes, if you don’t mind. Looks like Mylan is going to be a while.”

I didn’t want anyone else to read;cutting a deal had me preoccupied. “I really don’t think… well, Mylan could call me back
any minute now.”

“But I’m a speed reader.”

“No kidding?”

She leaned closer—and her perfume almost blew me into Nevada. “Seriously. Mind if I read some? Won’t take long.”

I handed her the first six chapters.

Lynn frowned and held the papers out in front of her bosom, as if they were a pittance. “C’mon, you can give me more than
that.”

I handed her twelve more chapters.

“That’s more like it.”

Pages fell into her lap every ten to fifteen seconds—I timed her while I waited for Mylan. Nothing better to do.

Lynn seemed mildly interested, then mildly engrossed, and a couple minutes later she even managed a giggle. “This golf scene
in Augusta… ‘Owned by the Master.’ “

“You play golf, too?”

She dropped that page into her lap. “A five handicap. Plus I’m a Tiger fan.”

I watched fifteen more minutes tick off the clock while Lynn—the speed-reading cross-dressing golfer—devoured Larry’s manuscript.

The message from Angie had me feeling a bit more confident about my marriage, though I knew better than to call her from here.
So while I waited for Mylan to summon me back to his office, I decided
to return a call to Larry. I was scrolling through my list of numbers when my phone rang.

Larry had beat me to it. His seventh call in two hours.

“Hello?”

“What’s happenin’, Ned? I gotta know.”

I stood and walked over to the window. I turned my back to Lynn and whispered into my cell. “At the moment, Larry, a she-male
with great big eyelashes and black fishnet stockings is reading your stuff.”

“Don’t joke with me, Ned.”

“I’m not joking. And she could probably beat us both at golf.”

Larry paused, as if shaken by unexpected news. “But what about the producer?”

“Patience, Larry. In the meantime, update me on the girl.…”

“Miranda? She only went out once with the news guy. Yesterday she asked
me
out.”