A Stranger Like You (29 page)

They go out to the truck. The woman’s wearing a skirt, which makes it easy. He pushes the needle into her thigh and tapes it down with some masking tape. They stand there a moment, watching the fluid slowly drain down. Satisfied, he tells Daisy to get into the truck. The girl climbs up onto the seat and he hands her the bottle. “I got it,” she says importantly, holding it up.

“You sure you can hold it?”

“Yeah, I can hold it.”

“Keep a little pressure on it.”

“Okay.”

Finally, they can leave this place—and none too soon. Through his rearview mirror, he sees the cop staggering out of the barn into the light, wiping the blood out of his eyes.

Denny drives the truck across the desert, back up to the road. The heat is dense and thick, the air wobbles. Dust engulfs the truck like the smoke of a grenade. He pulls through it and in a few seconds the whole place is in a big cloud of dirt—the trailer, the barn—it all disappears behind them and he can almost believe it doesn’t even exist.

In a barber’s chair on Olympic Boulevard, Hugh catches the news about Bruno Morelli. An airport employee had found him in an American Airlines cargo bin earlier that morning, bound at the hands and feet, with a burlap sack over his head tied around the neck with a piece of rope—the employee described Morelli’s condition when he’d taken off the sack as “barely breathing.”
The victim, a film director whose controversial film
Oath of Allegiance
has just been released in theaters, was rushed to Cedars Sinai Hospital where he remains in stable condition.

Talk about exaggeration. Hugh had chosen the burlap so Bruno
wouldn’t
have trouble breathing. The famous director had been a big weepy baby and had shit his pants—they didn’t tell you
that
on CNN.

Hugh admits that using the knife had been a little excessive. And
he’d
been the one having trouble breathing. He’d been sweating bullets in that ski mask. Hugh had been waiting for him outside the garage of his Laurel Canyon home. When Bruno’s car had pulled in, and the electric garage door opened like a curtain on a stage, Hugh had ducked inside. When Morelli got out of his car, Hugh had assaulted him with a gardening shovel. He guessed he’d beat him up pretty badly. Once he’d disabled him, it was easy for Hugh to carry out the rest of his plan. Right there in the garage, he’d tied Morelli’s hands and feet, and covered his head with a shroud he’d sewn himself out of burlap, purchased at a fabric store on Sepulveda.

Miles Beck had suggested the restaurant, what Hugh construed as a hole-in-the-wall Cuban café in Culver City. When he’d called Beck’s office and left a message with the secretary that he was in town and wanted to meet, Beck’s secretary had him spell his name twice, giving the impression that she didn’t remember who he was even though they both knew she did. Hugh takes a booth near the window. The booths are crummy red vinyl. Hugh’s seat is slashed and the foam guts are bursting out. Beck is late. It’s raining. People come in, shaking off the rain, fussing with their umbrellas. He watches the people at the tables. A group of women who might be secretaries. Two men in suits, their cell phones vibrating on the table, making the salt and pepper shakers shimmy. At last the agent appears in a long, sloppy raincoat. He’s older than Hugh had pictured, late sixties, built stout around the middle, with short arms and legs. On his feet is a pair of rubber galoshes, the old-fashioned kind his own father used to wear. Hugh stands up and shakes his hand and they sit down and rifle through their menus. The agent glances around the small café like he’s already bored. His expression seems to say:
There’s nobody important here.
Hugh has brought his notes for his new script,
Company Man.
In truth, he is rather proud of it. It is a story about a man who works at an insurance agency who makes a pass at a girl who is so desperate for his job that she unjustly accuses him of sexual harassment. The whole ordeal plays havoc on the man’s life, his marriage. His wife leaves him. Desperate for work, he takes a job as an orderly in a hospital, where he comes to understand, firsthand, the destruction of the health care industry. He falls in love with a young woman who suffers from a rare disease, the cure for which is not covered by her insurance provider—his old company. The person in charge of her benefits is the woman who’d stolen his job; eventually she gets fired. In the end, he convinces his old company to give the woman the operation, but it is too late, she dies. The dead woman’s mother sues the agency for millions of dollars and wins.

Beck is pleasantly surprised by the pitch and tells Hugh to send the script as soon as it’s ready. For a few lovely moments, Hugh feels like things are looking up, and he can almost believe he will find success. But when he gets back to the apartment, Tom Foster is waiting for him outside the building, wearing an outsized raincoat like a man in disguise. Tom isn’t himself. Disheveled and unshaven, he could be mistaken for a street person. “You don’t look so good, Tom.”

“I need a favor,” he says.

“Of course.”

They go up to the apartment. The rain comes down hard and it makes a nice sound. “Sorry, the place is a mess. It’s only temporary.”

Tom looks around uneasily, but says, “I used to live in a place like this.”

“It’s pretty basic, I guess.”

“I think I’m being followed. I don’t know, maybe I’m paranoid, but after what happened to Bruno I can’t be sure. First Hedda, now Bruno. I’m next. I sent my wife back to Rome today. Did I tell you she’s pregnant?”

“No. That’s good news, Tom. Congratulations.”

“I was wondering: Can I stay here? Nobody knows you,” he says, then adds apologetically, “I mean, nobody knows about this place.”

“Sure, Tom.”
Don’t worry, I’m not insulted. I know I’m a nobody. It’s all right; I’m used to it.
“Of course, you can stay here.”

“Just for a few days. I’ll make it up to you.”

“It’s no problem at all,” Hugh says. “Make yourself at home.”

They get drunk together and watch
The Battle of Algiers
on Hugh’s DVD player, Gillo Pontecorvo’s 1966 classic about the Algerian War of Independence. He had borrowed the film from the library.

“No different than today,” Tom remarks. “How strange is that?”

Hugh drinks in the grainy images. He is inspired by the passion of the Arabs fighting for their independence—their violent tactics no different from the insurgents in Iraq. Even the women have an impact, replacing their robes with Western dresses, filling their pretty pocketbooks with bombs to leave in European cafes. There are checkpoints and curfews, random bombings. Murders in the street. It is all too familiar, he thinks. Again, he wonders what it would feel like to care about something so deeply. To have the courage to risk everything for freedom, even your own life. With pride, he thinks of his convincing charade with Bruno Morelli and laughs a little out loud. These Hollywood people aren’t as smart as they think.

“What’s so funny?” Tom asks.

“Nothing,” Hugh apologizes. “Nothing at all.”

When they run out of whiskey, Hugh takes Tom to the store around the corner. The Indian woman flashes her eyes at Tom. Hugh can tell she’s glad to see them, glad he has brought his friend. Tom buys the whiskey. “Come again,” the woman says in broken English, handing Tom the bag.

They walk in the rain. The rain comes down hard. The little dog barks inside the landlord’s apartment, sniffing and growling behind the door. The smell of the landlady’s cooking seeps out. It is a strong, familial smell. It reminds him of his grandmother’s cooking, when he’d been made to live with her for that year after his mother’s breakdown.

Inside the apartment, Hugh turns on the TV and pours the drinks. The rain hammers on the roof. There are mudslides in Malibu. People’s homes are at risk. A story comes on about Bruno Morelli, the famous director who’d been abducted by terrorists. “This whole thing is really getting out of hand,” Tom says. “I’m not sure I would have written the script if I’d known this would happen.”

“You wrote it because you wanted people to know. Because you thought it was wrong.”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, that’s true. But it’s only one side of it. It’s only one story. You can’t possibly cover the whole war, from all points of view. Like the Algiers film. You side with the Arabs. They are portrayed as peaceful people in a desperate situation. It all depends on how the information is presented. I suppose we could even make a film that makes stoning a woman to death look like a reasonable punishment. It all depends on whose side you’re on and what you’re trying to accomplish.”

“Film as propaganda,” Hugh says. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“To some degree, all media is a form of propaganda—films, the news, even advertising. It can’t be helped.”

“But your film is doing well.”
Thanks to me.
Hugh can’t help feeling a little responsible for the film’s success. His “terrorist” acts have boosted ticket sales.

“I don’t give a damn about the film,” Tom shouts. He puts his face in his hands. “I’m sorry—I just can’t stop thinking about her, wondering where she is, what’s happened to her, if she’s all right—if she’s even alive. I don’t sleep, I don’t eat. We were close. I was in love with her.” He shakes his head, wipes his tears. “I feel responsible. I feel like it’s my fault.”

“Have faith,” he hears himself say. “Faith is important at times like these.”

They have another drink. Slurring, Tom apologizes for shouting earlier.

“I understand,” Hugh assures him. “You’re under enormous stress.”

Hugh turns off the TV and pulls down the Murphy bed. They remove their street clothes and climb onto the crummy mattress in their undershorts and T-shirts. Like brothers, they lie side by side. Tom lights a cigarette; Hugh wishes he wouldn’t smoke in bed, but doesn’t say anything.

“My wife filed for divorce,” he shares the news with Tom, eager for a little sympathy.

“I’m sorry to hear that. It’s what you wanted, though, isn’t it?”

Hugh nods, but he’s not really sure what he wants anymore; he’s not sure about anything at all. “I was involved with Ida Kent.”

“That writer?” Tom snickers. “I hear she gets around.”

“What?”

“She’s seeing Leo now.”

The news comes as a surprise.

“They met at my party.”

“Zaklos is a slob,” Hugh says.

“A well-connected one,” Tom clarifies. “In this town that makes all the difference.”

Hugh looks over at him, a soggy feeling in his stomach. He feels like he’s been punched. It’s weird having Tom here, sharing the bed. At length he says, “Can you sleep? I’m sorry there’s just this one bed.”

“Yeah, I can sleep.”

“Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

But Hugh is wide awake. He looks over at Tom’s sleeping face. It’s raining again and shadows spill down his face, his wide lips, his square chin, and across the sheets. Tom’s face is rugged, used-up, battered. He is a man who has experienced life, Hugh thinks, a man who has seen the edge.

Unbelievably, he feels himself getting aroused.

Unable to fall back to sleep, he retreats to the bathroom and sits on the edge of the tub and begins to weep. He doesn’t understand why he’s weeping. He thinks of Ida Kent and feels betrayed. He had felt something for her. Something deep and complex. That night in the motel, they’d crossed the line. They’d gone to another place. The unseen barrier between them had come down. They were just two bodies; two human beings; one male, one female. He’d had control of her. It was brutal; animalistic. Even though she’d complained, he’d sensed she wanted it; she’d wanted to be possessed. Women lie, they can’t help themselves, it’s in their DNA. Every last fucking one of them lies. You never really know what they’re thinking, but they’ve always got a plan. Calculating bitches. Whores! He touches himself a little bit and then more and more. Just as he’s about to come, he hears the door of the apartment gently closing. Had Tom seen him? No, the bathroom door is shut. No, he couldn’t possibly have seen. Still, he feels intensely embarrassed. His penis throbs. He pulls on his robe and hurries out into the hallway where Tom has started down the stairs. The dog begins to bark. “Tom,” he says, and Tom turns, a strange, perplexed expression on his face. “What’s wrong? Where are you going?”

“I have to go. I’m sorry.”

“In this weather?”

“I’m afraid it can’t be helped.”

“Okay,” Hugh says gently, a little hurt. “But come back if you need anything.”

Tom hurries out through the front vestibule. The landlady steps out into the hallway and looks up at Hugh with a confused expression. “Lovers’ quarrel?” she says, and laughs her awful laugh. Back in his apartment, Hugh glances out the window and sees Tom, wrapped in the raincoat, rushing down the sidewalk on his cell phone. Soon he is obscured by the falling rain, the glaring streetlights. Hugh sits on the edge of his bed, feeling a rush of self-loathing. On the desk, the clock reads 3:20 a.m. That’s when he notices the letter. He’d fished it out of his file before his meeting with Miles Beck and had forgotten to put it back. It was the letter Beck’s secretary had faxed to him, the letter Hedda Chase had written on Gladiator letterhead explaining why they were dumping his movie. There were other things there too about Hedda, the information he’d found about her online that he’d copied and put into his file. And there was a picture that he’d taken of her through the window of her house.

Leaving the file on the desk had been a foolish mistake. It’s likely Tom had seen it.

Perhaps the cops will come, he thinks, glancing at the clock. The sky is dark. The rain falls hard. He knows he should go—just to be safe—pack his things and get out, but for some reason he doesn’t. He doesn’t really feel like going anywhere. So what that Tom saw the letter, it doesn’t mean anything really. There are probably dozens of disgruntled writers out there who despise Hedda Chase. And as far as his little file on her goes, they’re “friends”—why shouldn’t he have a photo of her? Was it so unusual that he’d copied a few articles about her career off the Internet? No, he doesn’t think so. It’s not something they can condemn him for.