An Accidental Affair (28 page)

Down here what was strange was a man with a post-fight face dressed in jeans and loafers and a baseball bat at his side, but the
crude T-shirt that I wore helped me fit in with the rumpled men in Way Fair glasses, flannel shirts, flip-flops, unshaven faces, and disheveled dos.

Carrying a bat was too obvious. And if whoever was in the gray car was equipped the way Bizarro Bergs had been equipped, it made no sense to carry a Louisville Slugger into a gunfight. I left the bat on the passenger seat and picked up the messenger bag Bizarro Bergs had left behind. That bag would send them a message. At least I hoped that it would, as I hoofed through a section where men and women alike took pride in looking homeless, maybe to keep the destitute from petitioning them for tax-free handouts. Within three minutes, I was at the corner of California Avenue and Abbot Kinney Boulevard. Abbot’s Habit was a local dive, a coffee shop that boasted of having the best sandwiches in town. I loved their muffins. The scent from coffees, teas, bagels, and subs on rosemary bread lit up the small space, a space of concrete floors, exposed fixtures and white ceiling fans that didn’t cost a lot. Wooden tables. Minimalist. I came down here often. It was strange that Steve Martin wanted to meet here. Steve Martin knew me. And more than as being Regina Baptiste’s husband.

Whoever was following me didn’t leave their car. They knew I’d be back. The Bentley was insurance that I’d return at some point. The hour limit on the parking meters gave them an approximate waiting time. They’d been after me for days. Another hour wouldn’t matter.

I took a breath, opened and closed my dank hands. Dozens were seated outside, many with their mutts and pedigreed dogs on a leash, a few with kids that needed the same restraints.

No paparazzi.

I adjusted the Tumi messenger bag on my shoulder.

This haunt was one of my favorite places. It was one of my wife’s favorites too.

I stepped inside, waited for someone to approach me. No one did. There was a long line at the deli, a line that went out the door. There were about twenty four-seat tables throughout the bare-bones space, all taken. Soulful music was on, but not a soulful person was in sight. I looked at my watch. Five minutes left. Most of the people in the room worked in the business in some way, the number of scripts and sides that were on the sturdy tables a dead giveaway.

A woman was seated at the last wooden table before the bathrooms. There was a book on the table. Steve Martin’s
An Object of Beauty
. The dark makeup, dark lipstick, dark tattoos, a half dozen body piercings that I could see, the overall, rebellious, gothic appearance made her look like she had been transported from a post-apocalyptic world, one beset by cannibals and hunger, a place where the sun no longer shined and darkness and freezing cold were a man’s blanket. She wore dark jeans and a suit coat over a trendy tank top that said
DON’T EVER TAKE SERIOUSLY ANYTHING A WOMAN TELLS YOU RIGHT BEFORE OR DURING HER PERIOD.

I stopped in front of her. First she looked up, then she closed her book.

She said, “Nice to see you again, Mister Thicke.”

I nodded, but my mind was processing the word
again
.

She said, “Your face…”

“It will heal. At least I think it will. If not, I’ll have to get a new passport photo.”

“Looks like you got hit by a truck.”

“And the other guy looks like he was run over by a six-engine train.”

“Johnny Bergs?”

“One of his representatives.”

I looked around, didn’t see any more of the Bergs brothers, saw that gray car still parked down Abbot Kinney, and I groaned out some pain that I didn’t realize I owned as I took to the straight back
wooden seat. Two tables over was a woman writing notes on yellow Post-its. Standing in line at the deli was an older man with a much younger woman. Beautiful older women were here too. As soon as I sat down, I set my phone down on the table close to me.

She said, “No cameras.”

“None here.”

“I mean, no cell phones.”

“In case my wife or my associate need to reach me.”

“Could you power it down and put it inside your pocket?”

“Why?”

“Trust issues.”

“I trust people better when I have my phone at my side.”

“They make me nervous. Turn it off. Or I’ll walk.”

I did what she said. Outside, a woman in jean shorts and a purple L.A. Lakers hoodie over her pink bikini top went speeding by on Rollerblades, followed by a messenger speeding by on a bicycle, followed by a jogger who actually wore clothing. The line at the deli remained long.

I asked, “What’s your name?”

She smiled. Her look told me that I should know. Mine told her that I didn’t.

I said, “I know you. You look familiar.”

“This is how I dress, express myself, after work. You’ve only seen me at work.”

I nodded. There were a million jobs in the city. I had no idea which job was hers.

She smiled like she was disappointed. “You came alone, Mister Thicke.”

For a moment, in that instant, I was still Varg. Or wanted to be. Varg’s reality wasn’t pleasant, not at the moment, but it wasn’t as traumatic and taxing as this. I blinked it away.

I said, “I did.”

“You passed by in the Bentley. You usually drive one of the other cars.”

I nodded and tried not to look uncomfortable. “I do. Usually.”

“The Mercedes.”

“Yeah. The Maybach.”

“The guy who usually drives you around?”

“He’s not here. That’s who I was leaving my phone on for.”

She took a breath and said, “Best served cold, is what he said. Best served cold.”

“He who?”

“On set. The director said that that night it all happened.”

“Allan Smithee.”

“Not Alan Smithee.”

“Who?”

“Bobby Holland.”

“He was there.”

“He was there. He was always dropping by the set.”

“Was he taking directing lessons from Alan Smithee?”

“To see Miss Baptiste.”

“They were seeing each other?”

“More like he was always after her.”

“How did she respond?”

“I could tell she wanted to call security. But she wasn’t going to let him intimidate her.”

“How did he get on the set that day?”

“Friends with Allan Smithee. Friends with Bergs. Could’ve bribed somebody.”

“You said you saw everything that happened.”

“I saw what happened. I can show it to you. When I’m comfortable with you. I’ve been tossing and turning since this happened, not really knowing what to do with what I have.”

“You were a fly on the wall somehow.”

“I was.”

“And you’re telling me that no one saw you.”

“I was as invisible as a black man in a film about World War Two.”

“Black man during World War Two.”

“Heard this black guy on set say that one day.”

“Where were you?”

“I was sitting next to all of them.”

I looked at her severe gothness. “Why didn’t they notice you?”

“Because I’m nobody important.”

“And you were sitting next to everyone who was important?”

“Important people only notice more important people.”

“Welcome to Los Angeles.”

“And I taped their entire evening. Well, most of it.”

“How did you manage that?”

“I use my cellular. I pretend that I’m on the phone, hold it up to my ear, only the video is going. They see the side of my head and think that I am chatting, but I’m videotaping everything.”

“Pretty slick.”

“Not really. But people do that all the time, then post on YouTube. Half of the guys walking down Venice Beach with their phone up to their heads are getting T&A shots and videos on their phones. Everyone who has a phone has a video camera and that makes me nervous.”

“That’s why you wanted my phone off.”

“And if you had had a pen in your pocket, I would’ve had you remove that too. They sell pens that record now. Pen camera, button cameras, and keychain cameras. Everyone has a video on his or her phones. People are recording people in their most personal moments.”

“Bad experience?”

She nodded. “I’ve already had a bad experience with a guy, which I will not get into.”

I let that topic drop and said, “Steve Martin.
Object of Beauty
.”

“That’s my favorite book at the moment. Years ago it was
Shopgirl
.
I connected with that character. The one taken for granted, struggling, overworked, overlooked. And I was dating an older guy at the time. When I finished reading the book, I left him. It was inevitable.”

“I’ll have to pick up a copy of each before I beat Johnny Bergs’s ass again and go to jail.”

“She doesn’t deserve what has happened to her. She’s Regina Baptiste and they’re treating her as if she’s nothing more than a hooker who just got off the Greyhound bus at Union.”

“They treat hookers at Union better.”

“She was better with you. I’ve watched her. She was good, but when she connected with you, she became great. I saw the exponential change. When she was with Bobby Holland, she couldn’t take a photo without him trying to get in the shot. And he wanted his name first. Bobby Holland and Regina Baptiste. You never stole her limelight. You never tried to steal her press. You stood in the back and smiled. That was awesome. When a woman has the right man, the right influences in her life, she goes from good to great. When she did
SNL
, her show was as popular as when Steve Martin hosted. She was funny and she killed in every skit.”

“Steve Martin.”

“I’m his number one fan.”

“Who are you?”

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

“No. I don’t.”

“I’m the nobody who hears everything because when you’re a nobody people talk in front of you as if you’ve never been born. They send me for drugs and if I get busted, not only will no one come to help me, but I will lose my job. I’m the flunky. I lose my job if I don’t score coke and I lose my job if I refuse to go. Whatever one refuses to do, someone else will do with a smile.”

“Trapped.”

“Like she was. He was her pimp, if you ask me.”

“Who?”

“Bobby Holland. When she was with him, he was more like her pimp. He kept that birdie in a cage. You set her free. The world owes you a debt of gratitude for that. She was only an actress before you. After you, she was international. And she deserved it. She’s talented.”

“I bought enough publicity. Helped her make better choices. Pulled a few strings. But she did all the heavy lifting. She was the one giving her body and soul to the business.”

“What did you get in return?”

“I had the privilege of seeing her happy.”

“Well, that’s corny.”

“Matches my attire.”

“What did you ask her for in return?”

“She made me breakfast every now and then.”

“You’re demanding.”

“Try to be.”

“You’re a regular Hitler.”

“I made her boil eggs and make toast. Three eggs and two pieces of toast.”

“A real monster. Making her boil three eggs. Shame on you.”

“And toast. Don’t forget the toast.”

“In the oven or in a toaster?”

“I let her use the toaster from time to time. I like my toast from the oven.”

She said, “You didn’t really ask her for anything.”

“Well, it was Regina Baptiste singing, dancing, and making me breakfast.”

“Priceless.”

“I did the same for her, but in your eyes, it wouldn’t have the same weight.”

“You did it all for her.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Not because she’s Regina Baptiste. We’re…we were a team.”

She smiled as if that was what she wanted to hear.

She said, “I love your wife. And I care about her deeply.”

“Is this the part where you tell me that you’re lesbian lovers.”

“Not even. I’m straight, but she could make me embrace the rainbow.”

“You sound like you’re her number-one fan.”

“More important than that. I’m her number-one employee.”

I nodded. “You’re Regina Baptiste’s assistant.”

“Ninety percent of the interviews that she does, she never sees. But I have watched them all. I sit in her office and watch them all. Most of them she no longer remembers doing; most things she no longer remembers saying. It’s amazing to me. Whenever she interviews, she’s different, super fun, super funny, very entertaining, very serious when need be, and her word choice, if she’s on BBC or CBS or PBS, fits the comedic nature or seriousness of the broadcast or interviews, always on point. That Montana girl is smart.”

I nodded in agreement. My mind was on the gray car waiting up the block.

“When she works, it’s amazing to see the actress inside her take over. When she interviews, not when she first started, but later, a few years later, after having done so many press junkets and chat shows and print interviews, autopilot kicks in.”

“So you’ve been on her team for a long time.”

“I know her and I can tell when she is on autopilot. I’d be bored too. Same stupid questions. Same answers. You already know everything and there is nothing new to talk about. But she collected and filed as many of those interview moments as she could on DVD. She said she wanted everything for her records. For her memoirs. For her unborn children.”

She was to Regina what Driver was to me. She knew things about
my wife that I would never know; she knew things that my wife would never share because no one shared all.

She said, “She can’t know that we met. She can’t ever know that…that…”

“That you record her private moments with your phone.”

“I record and it’s for me. It’s just for me. I mean she’s Regina Baptiste.”

Again I thought about Driver and whispered, “Occam’s razor.”

“What was that?”

“You sent messages to Driver. You got his number from Regina’s contact sheet.”

“I was trying to find you. But I was scared to say who I was. I didn’t want to lose my job. I break the confidentiality clause, I can get sued for everything that I own plus rights to
my
unborn children. Actually, I was worried about you for a minute. After that…film was online, after it was online, I was hoping you didn’t go out and kill Bergs. That would have devastated Miss Baptiste.”