Children of Light (3 page)

“You kidding, Gordon?
King Lear?
You think I got time for that shit?”

He laughed.

“Yes, Gordon,” Shelley said, “yes, I was there. I saw you. You were wonderful.”

“How’s that?”

“Wonderful, Gordon. Wonderful, O.K.?”

“I thought so too,” Walker said. “I felt underappreciated.”

“Didn’t you see the L.A.
Times?
”

“Acceptable,” Walker said. “But faint.”

“Don’t be greedy,” Shelley said. “Al will bring you some clippings to slaver over at lunch.”

“Why don’t you and I have dinner tonight?” he asked her suddenly. “Why don’t we go to the San Epo Hotel?”

She was silent for a moment.

“How are you, Gordon? I mean, how are you doing?”

“Not so good,” he said.

“Sure,” she said. “The San Epo, sure. Sunset. Know when sunset is? It’s in the paper.”

“I’ll call the Coast Guard.”

“You drinking?” she asked. “You better not stand me up.”

“I’ll be there,” he said.

A
rriving at Musso and Frank’s, Walker settled in at a banquette table and ordered a martini. Keochakian came in fifteen minutes late to find him ordering a second.

“Bring me one too,” Al told the waiter.

Keochakian studied his client. He had hard, unconfiding eyes behind thick tinted glasses, the face and manner of a Marseilles
numéro.

“How are you, Gordon?” He shook Walker’s hand and gripped his shoulder. “How are Connie and the kids?”

“They’re dead, Al.”

The agent looked at him without expression.

“Hey, that’s funny, Gordon.”

“You always ask. I wondered if you were listening.”

Keochakian bared his teeth.

“I always listen. I want to know. I’m a family man. I’m not like you, you fuck. They’re wasted on you.”

“Connie left me,” Walker said.

“I don’t believe that,” Al said. “It’s impossible and I reject it.”

“She left me a most eloquent letter. A bill of particulars. She seemed very determined. She’s in London.”

“Know what I think? I think she’ll come back. I’m sure of it. If you want her to.” Keochakian sipped his drink and grimaced. “I presume you want her to.”

Walker looked down at his folded hands and nodded slowly.

“Face it, man. Without her you’re fucked. You’ll go down the tubes. You have to get her back.”

“She has her pride.”

“Now you know,” Keochakian said.

“I can’t talk about it today,” Walker said. “I’m too scrambled.”

“That’s fine. But when you do want to talk about it let me know, because I have a few things to say on the subject and I have the right to an opinion.”

Walker chewed his lip and looked away.

“So what do you want to eat?” Al asked.

“Since we’re having martinis,” Walker said, “I’m thinking liver.”

“The liver is good,” Al said. He signaled for a waiter and was attended at once. They ordered. Under his agent’s disapproving eye, Walker called for a half bottle of cabernet.

“Tell me about Seattle.”

“I could spend the rest of my life doing
Lear
” Walker said. “I’d like to do it all. The Fool. Gloucester, Cordelia. The fucking thing is bottomless.”

“Shelley saw you.”

Walker smiled. “She said. She’s my turtledove.”

“Would you like to work?” Al asked. “I have something good.”

“When?”

“They’d want to test this week. But they asked for you specifically, so I think that’s just a formality.” He was frowning. “Are you tied up or something? Why is it important when?”

Walker made no answer.

“You into something? Will you have a script for me?”

“No,” Walker said. He cleared his throat. “I thought I’d go down to Bahía Honda and look in on
The Awakening.
”

Al squinted through his green-shaded glasses and shook his head.

“Why?”

Walker shrugged. “Because it’s my baby. I want to see how they’re treating it.”

“I thought we went through this,” Al said. The waiter brought the wine for Walker to taste. When it was poured out, Keochakian covered his own glass with his hand to decline it. “I thought a decision had been made and I thought it was the right one.”

“I’ve decided I want a look-in.”

“A look-in,” the agent said, a toneless echo.

“Make my presence felt.”

“They don’t want you down there,” Al said.

The main course arrived. Walker poured himself a second glass of wine.

“They asked for me once,” Walker said.

Keochakian took his glasses off and shrugged. “They didn’t care, Gordon. Walter thought he might pick your brain a little but he certainly doesn’t need you now. He’ll think you’re crowding his act.”

Walker picked up a fork and looked at his plate.

“I’d like to, you know.”

“They won’t pay. They don’t require you.”

“I’ll pay. I’ll go as a civilian. For the beach.”

Al addressed his liver and onions.

“I think this is unprofessional.”

“I don’t see why,” Walker said. When he began to eat he found that he was very hungry. “It’s not unheard-of.”

“You’re going to see Lee Verger,” Keochakian said. He was avoiding Walker’s eyes.

“It would be nice to see Lu Anne. Look, I’ve got some stake in the picture. Why shouldn’t I go down?”

“Because you work for a living,” Al said. He spoke very slowly and softly. “And I have work for you.”

“I’m not ready,” Walker said vaguely.

“It’s a fun part. It’s big. A faggoty intellectual villain. You’d have a blast.”

“I feel the need to go down to Mexico for a while. When I get back—I’ll be refreshed. I’ll be able to work.”

Keochakian leaned his knife and fork on his plate.

“Let me tell you something, Gordon. If you show up on that set you’ll be digging your own grave.”

Walker laughed bitterly.

“You think it’s funny, fucker?” Keochakian asked. “You know how you look? You’re sweating fucking alcohol. You think I can’t see your eyes? You think people in this business don’t know what drunks look like?”

“I’m quitting tomorrow, for Christ’s sake.”

“Oh,” Al said with a humorless smile, “quitting tomorrow. That’s nice. That’s good, Gordon. Well, I suggest you do that, pal. And I suggest you leave Lee the fuck alone.” He put his fork to the meat, then set it down again. “I mean, go retrieve Connie. Lee doesn’t need you. You’re the last thing she needs. Whereas Connie for her own sick reasons does.”

“I need a trip. Travel is therapy for me.”

Al looked at him and leaned forward across the table.

“If you’re ever unable to work, put yourself in a hospital.”

“Please, Al.”

“Gordon,” Keochakian said, “ten years ago this might have been a joke but it’s not a joke now. Take the cure, man. People do it all the time.”

Walker put a hand to his forehead.

“You have the money. Do yourself a favor. Get out of circulation and dry out. Go East. New England. It’s autumn, they have some good places there, you won’t see anyone you know.”

“I’d go bananas,” Walker said. “A place like that.”

“Maybe it has to be done, Gordon.”

“Well,” Walker said in a placatory manner, “we’ll see how it goes.”

A busboy came and removed their plates. Walker poured wine.

“Too bad you won’t do this thing I have for you. It might get you television.”

“Is that what I want?”

Keochakian’s eyes seemed to glaze. He stared into space and scratched his chin.

“I think I’ll grow a beard, Gordon. A goatee, what do you think?”

“Good, Al. That’d be good.”

“Don’t you dare go down there,” Al said. He shook his finger before Walker’s face. “Don’t you dare undo all the work I’ve done.”

“Sure, Al,” Walker said. “Hey, what work, man?”

“Fuck you, Gordon.”

Walker waited, half expecting him to stand up and leave. They both sat tight, facing one another.

“We made a very favorable deal, financially,” Al said calmly.

“My best fee,” Walker said. “A record.”

“Exactly. We also dealt with some typical Walter Drogue-like ploys.”

“Did we?”

“Yes, we did, Gordon. You may remember his concern over the feminist perspective.”

“I wasn’t aware of it.”

“Walter was worried about the absence of a feminist perspective. He gave us a lot of shit about this. Know what was on his mind?”

“I can guess.”

Keochakian smiled thinly.

“He wanted a writing credit. Not for some broad—for him. He saw the script was good. He thinks the thing might go. He wanted a writing credit for his vanity and to jack more points out of them.”

“Well,” Walker said. “Walter’s a great feminist.”

“Definitely,” Al said. “I hear his father was an even greater feminist. Anyway, that fucking ball would have rolled seven ways from sundown but it would have stopped on a writing credit for Walter Drogue. We were able to checkmate these numbers. We saved your points and credit.”

“He never heard of the novel before I did the script.”

“He thinks he did.”

“This time last year,” Walker said, “he thought
The Awakening
was a mummy movie. Now he thinks he wrote the book.”

“That’s how he is, Gordo. And if you go down there and act like a rummy and mess with his actress you’ll play right into his hands. He thinks he can swallow you with a glass of water.”

“Did he say that?” Walker asked, smiling.

“Words to that effect. And they’re all running scared because Dongan Lowndes is down there doing a big magazine piece on the filming. They’re afraid he’ll make assholes out of them and screw the project.”

“Well,” Walker said, “how about that?”

Dongan Lowndes was a novelist whose single book, published eight years before, Walker much admired. In the intervening years, Lowndes had turned to nonfiction writing for quality magazines. Most recently he had been writing on such subjects as Las Vegas crooners, self-publicizing tycoons, fatuous politicians and the film industry. He wrote well and bitterly and they feared him.

“Does he think he can swallow Lowndes too?”

“They’re hoping to charm him.”

“Maybe with Lee, huh?”

“This is a Charlie Freitag production, Gordon. You know Charlie. He figures …” Keochakian raised his eyes heavenward. “Christ, who knows what he figures? He’s a culture vulture. He thinks it’s a class picture and he thinks Lowndes is a classy guy. He thinks he’ll get a friendly piece and it’ll be good for the picture.”

“Whereas in fact Lowndes can’t get it on to write and he hates to see people work. He’ll nail them to a tree.”

“Tell Charlie,” Al said. He watched Walker sip his wine. “Hey, you’re a little bitter too, huh?”

“Lowndes is a fine writer,” Walker said. “I hope he never writes another novel in his fucking life.”

“Terrific, Gordo. You’re just what they need down there. You can hassle Lee and piss on the press. Get drunk, start fights. Just like old
times, right?” He leaned across the table and fixed his Vieux Port stare on Walker. “You’ll hurt people. You’ll hurt yourself. I’m telling you to stay away.”

“I’ll think about it,” Walker said.

“Please,” Al said. “Please think.”

He took a file folder full of press clippings from his attaché case and handed them to Walker.

“Enjoy yourself. Sober up. Call me in a couple of days and we’ll talk about what you should do.” He called for the check and signed it as the waiter stood by. “I mean, what if Connie comes back or calls and you’re off fucking up somewhere? Don’t do anything. Don’t go anywhere until you’re sober.”

They went out. It had turned into a Santa Ana day with a dry comfortless breeze, a hot hazy sky. At the corner of Bronson, Keochakian took hold of Walker’s lapel.

“People are watching you,” he said. “Always. Evil people who wish you bad things are watching. You’re not among friends.” He turned away, walked a few steps and spun round. “Trust no one. Except me. I’m different. You can trust me. You believe that?”

“More or less,” Walker said.

On the way back to West Hollywood, he stopped at his health club, had a swim and read his reviews in the sauna. The reviews were, in the main, good. One of them was good enough to drive him out of the heat with angina pains. It called his performance a revelation. “Walker’s anguished king, descending from impotent frenzy to an almost fey, childlike madness, comes as a revelation to those familiar only with his street-smart movie turns.”

He thought it cheering, although the pains rather worried him.

Back at the Chateau, he packed up, left a wake-up call and took a short nap. His dreams were stormy. An hour later he was south of Long Beach in rush-hour traffic.

Deep into Orange County, he pulled off the San Diego Freeway and cut over toward the coast road. On his left, the future of southern California was unfolding; he passed mile upon mile of development divided into units by redwood fencing and bougainvillea, mock villages
centered on a supermarket and a Bob’s Big Boy. Every half mile or so a patch of stripped, empty acreage awaited the builders and better times.

On his right, through some realtor’s stratagem, the land was unimproved. Herefords grazed in fields of yellow grass; wildflowers and manzanita flourished. From somewhere came the smell of orange trees, as though it were spring and twenty years before. The nearest groves were miles away now.

He drove into fog among the dry hills, the warm wind died away and on the coast it was gray and cool. He felt better suited.

On the coast road, he turned south. For a few miles it was all suburban maritime; there were condominiums with marinas, dive shops, seafood restaurants. Further down the Herefords wandered among undulating oil-well pumps, a landscape of tax deductions.

At seven-fifteen, half an hour before sunset, he was pulling into San Epifanio Beach, the last repair of untranslated seediness in the county. The beach had oil rigs offshore and an enormous German Expressionist power plant on the city line. There was a fishing pier borne seaward on spindly pilings in defiance of the Pacific rollers, the far end of which vanished into enshrouding fog. At right angles to the coast road, garnished with a rank of rat-infested royal palms, ran the lineup of tackle stores, taco stands and murky cocktail lounges that was the beach’s principal thoroughfare.