Magic Hour (12 page)
Not that they spent a lot of time together. My mother used the big back bedroom on the first floor, and Easton took over the second floor. I don't think either of them longed for more companionship. Okay, compared to me, Easton was my mother's pride and joy, but compared to what she had expected of him—the presidency of a major brokerage firm, senior partner of a Wall Street law firm—he was a loser.
But a well-dressed one.
Robby Kurz did a major double take after we rang the doorbell. "Easton Brady," my brother said to Robby, and shook his hand.
Robby stared at Easton. Then he blinked a couple of times, as if expecting his vision to clear. He had probably been imagining me minus two years, and that was sort of true. But he was also face-to-face with a gent in gray flannel slacks, a pale-blue oxford shirt and a sapphire-blue V-neck sweater, a rich-looking Waspy guy who was combing back his hair off his forehead with his fingers—hair that was just slightly too long. Not hippy or scruffy hair, but hair that seemed to be saying: Forgive the length, but I just got back from sailing home from Bermuda.
Half an hour later, Robby was still sneaking fast, disbelieving glances from Easton to me. He sat at a folding card table across from Easton in my brother's sitting room; it had once been my bedroom. As a kid, Easton had used the table to build his model ships; now it was covered with a huge, square fringed gold cloth, like one of those scarves you see on pianos in old movies. It almost hid the table's skinny metal legs. I sat directly behind my brother, on a nice old cracked leather couch he must have picked up at some yard sale; the shrink at South Oaks had had one like it, the same dark brown.
My deal with Ray Carbone was that I could be at Easton's interview without being there. But every now and then my brother would turn his head and glance at me for reassurance as Robby questioned him about the cast and crew. What the hell: I'd nod, letting him know he was doing fine. Well, he was.
"What exactly were you doing in
"I was meeting with our casting director. Going over deal memos and negotiating a price on some extra work we wanted done. Sy and Santana felt we had to cast the Colombian drug kingpin as threatening, but quietly threatening."
"You mean all the parts weren't filled yet, even after they'd started making the movie?" Robby asked.
"That's right." Easton sounded casual, like someone who'd been in the business for twenty years instead of a few months. "It happens fairly often. We knew we could always sign an actor we'd already read, but we were hoping for someone special. The problem was where to look." I rested my head on the back of the couch's cool leather, crossed my arms over my chest and checked out my brother. I was impressed: no more of his sweaty, eager, fast-talking bullshit, like when he was selling houses or Jaguars or hand-knitted boat-neck sweaters. Easton had become a genuine movie guy. "We'd seen just about every over-fifty swarthy actor in
He kept plucking at the neck of his sweater, probably to realign the V in front. "The casting director wanted to start looking at actors in Chicago, to farm the work out to her associate there. But the price she quoted us seemed out of line. Sy thought it would be better to negotiate with her in person than over the phone, but he couldn't do it. He was busy on the set and getting ready to go to L.A., so he asked me to."
"How long did that meeting last?"
"From before two until—I'm guessing now—three-thirty, four. I'm not sure. You could check with her."
"Did you speak to Sy on the phone at all during that time?"
"No. I was going to drive over to his house after dinner, around nine, and tie up whatever loose ends there were."
"Was he expecting any company for dinner?" I interjected.
"No," Easton said. "Just Lindsay."
"Did you come straight back here after your meeting?" Robby asked.
"No. I went to Sy's shirtmaker to give him a swatch of Egyptian cotton Sy wanted to use and to pick up some other shirts that were ready." I couldn't see my brother's face from the couch, but Easton must have smiled at Robby because, suddenly, Robby had on his supertoothy grin. "Assistant producer," Easton continued, "and swatch-carrier. My whole job was to smooth things out for Sy. I went to meetings, made phone calls, wheeled and dealed in a minor way. And even played errand boy." He fell silent for a minute, then added solemnly: "It was the best job I ever had."
Outside my old bedroom 'window, the leaves on the oak tree were almost black against the blue-gray twilight. It's usually a down time for ex-drunks, but there I was, all of a sudden, feeling pretty up—about Easton.
My brother, obviously, had always had some inner aberration that had screwed up his chances at a career. But outwardly he'd been Mr. Moderate. Balanced, temperate, neat, controlled. No fires burning in his soul. You couldn't believe he wasn't able to get a grip on his life, because he
seemed
so balanced. He did nothing to excess; when he drank, it was a watered-down Scotch or a couple of glasses of wine. When he drugged, it was one puff of a joint. Even the women he went out with were understated—to the point of invisibility: well-bred, well-dressed, with boobs barely bigger than their tiny noses.
But strangely, the movie business, famous for its bullshit, had managed to make Easton more real. He was much less pompous. Okay, still not the kind of guy you'd ask over for
Monday Night Football
, but friendlier, looser. A decent man instead of Charlotte Easton Brady's finely featured, immaculately groomed, elegantly dressed prig of a son. Maybe, I started thinking, after all these years, we could really be brothers. Lynne would say, Let's have Easton to dinner, and I'd say, Great.
"Why was Mr. Spencer going to Los Angeles?" Robby asked.
"He had four or five different projects he was interested in. He had a lot of meetings lined up."
I broke in. "Isn't it a little unusual for a producer to leave town while his movie is being made?"
Easton turned around, giving me the profile that demonstrated who'd gotten the best of the genes. "Not necessarily. Sy was executive producer. He had what's called a line producer to supervise the whole production, take care of the day-to-day problems. And he had me to put out smaller fires. So he could afford to get away for a couple of days."
"Except things were pretty lousy here."
"What do you mean?"
"The business with Lindsay."
"Lindsay." Easton seemed a little ill at ease, as if by confirming trouble he'd be letting Sy down. "I see you've heard the rumors."
"We heard about the lousy dailies," I told him. "Were they that bad?"
He shrugged. "I can't be a hundred percent sure, Steve. I haven't been in the business long enough to really know. I mean, when Sy asked, I pretended to have an opinion and crossed my fingers and hoped I didn't sound like a complete fool. But whatever reactions I have, they're still pretty much the same as the man who buys a ticket and sits in a multiplex with a box of popcorn: either bored or enjoying himself. As far as I could see, Lindsay was doing all right. And she looked—there's no other word—breathtaking." Robby started his compulsive Lindsay nodding. "But I
think
I understood what Sy was talking about. Whenever Lindsay was on the screen, I wasn't riveted—except by her beauty. I looked, but I didn't really listen. My attention wandered. And to be honest, it probably would have wandered more if I hadn't been involved in the movie."
"But she wasn't a disaster?" I inquired.
"Not her acting per se. But I think from Sy's point of view the movie itself was a disaster-in-progress, because the audience
had
to love this woman. And even I could see you did not love Lindsay in those dailies. Actually, you didn't even like her all that much. You just didn't care."
Robby took over. "Was Sy going to Los Angeles to speak to Katherine Pourelle about taking over Lindsay's part?"
Just before Easton whipped his head around to face Robby, I saw his reaction: absolutely stunned at how far we'd come so fast. "Jesus, who told you that?" Neither of us responded. Finally, Easton spoke. "Well, congratulations! Whoever your source was knew what he was talking about." He turned back to me, really curious. "Who told you?"
"I can't, East."
"Oh, right," he said. "Sorry. I didn't mean to be pushy..." He smiled. "Well, not too pushy. In any case, Sy
was
going to see Katherine Pourelle. But as far as I was concerned, it was just a typical Sy maneuver. You see, he would let word leak out that he was speaking to Pourelle and her agent. That would put the fear of God into Lindsay, make her wake up and start—well, start acting. But I swear to you, Sy
never
would have fired her."
"He told you that?" Robby asked, then cleared his throat. He was getting hoarse. It had been a long day, and he looked like one exhausted Howdy Doody. Even the perky points of the yellow handkerchief in his breast pocket had gone limp.
"No. But you see, I'd gotten to know Sy. He could be objective, tough, even callous about Lindsay the actress. But he was completely vulnerable to Lindsay the woman. She had an enormous hold over him."
"Sex?" I asked.
"Yes," Easton responded.
"Was it just a sex thing, or did love enter into it too?" Robby inquired.
"It must have been both." Easton lowered his head. His shoulders rose and fell with each of his sighs. And all of a sudden it hit me. Easton, like Sy, was being objective about Lindsay's performance—but not about Lindsay herself. He couldn't hide it. He'd actually fallen for her.
"It's not just that she's beautiful, or talented or intelligent," he was explaining, trying to sound detached, "although she's all those things. She has a way of getting to a man." Robby was bobbing his head again: Yes! Yes! Yes! "Sy ... Sy needed Lindsay too much to fire her." I heard Easton swallow. He seemed to have needed her too. He had one hell of a lump in his throat.
"He needed her even if it cost him twenty million dollars?" Robby asked.
"Yes."
But what about Nick Monteleone's theory that Sy had chilled on the fair Lindsay and was, in fact, getting his toes curled elsewhere after he left the set every morning at eleven? I thought about those long, unblond hairs caught on the headboard in the guest room.
"Were you there for that conversation about if lightning struck Lindsay?" I asked.
Easton's posture went ramrod straight. Once again, he seemed amazed that we actually had been doing what we were supposed to be doing: being detectives. Finally, he said: "God, you two are thorough! And ... well, yes. I heard Sy say that. But that wishing Lindsay were out of the picture—literally—was just Sy's way of blowing off steam."
"What do you mean?"
"She was a big disappointment, but he wouldn't have fired her. Trust me, Steve. There was no way he would have been able to cut her loose." Easton's tongue came out to moisten his lips. "He was helpless when it came to Lindsay."
Normally, I would have gone after him, half kidding, half zinging it to him, saying:
Him
helpless? What about you, sucker? I'd have given him a lot of shit about falling for a movie star. But I wasn't going to embarrass my brother in front of Robby. Also, I realized that even if this was a hopeless crush, it was important; this was the first time in Easton's life where he was showing some passion. It was not something to laugh about.
"What about the other investors?" Robby asked. "It wasn't just Sy's money, was it? What about Mikey LoTriglio?"
"Mikey!" Easton said. "Yes, of course. He'd slipped my mind. God, you should see him. What a tough act. Makes Marlon Brando in
The Godfather
look like a pussycat." He stopped and considered what he'd been saying. "But maybe that's not fair. He has a thick
"Was Sy afraid of him in any way?"
Silence. Easton must have been chewing his lip over that. I peered around. There was a script on the coffee table in front of the couch. I picked it up. My brother turned at the sound of paper. He saw what I was holding. His body sagged; his poise deserted him. He seemed to have forgotten about Robby. "See that script, Steve?" He sounded like a kid a few seconds from tears. "Sy gave it to me Thursday, the day before ... He handed it to me and said, 'Our next movie, Easton. It just might make history.' "
"I'm really sorry," I said. "Things were going great with him, weren't they?"
"I finally—" He cut himself off, realizing Robby was there. "My life was tied to his," he said quietly. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again he was the old Easton, aggressively cheerful. "Well, I guess I'll have to beat the bushes, find something else." He shook his head. "I'd hate like hell to have to move to
Oh, shit, I thought. Easton had lucked out with Sy. He'd found a patron who liked his Southampton style and who had the rare and good instinct to trust Easton, to allow him to rise to all sorts of occasions, to prove himself. But Sy couldn't give a reference. And what the hell kind of resume could my brother hand out in Hollywood? Failed car salesman? For years Easton hadn't even been able to sell madras Bermudas to congenital preppies. He lacked something—conviction, balls. What would he do in Los Angeles? How would he maneuver in a city of sharks?
"Uh, where were we?" Robby wondered. He was massaging the bridge of his nose as if it were some newly discovered acupuncture point that would induce bright eyes and a clear mind. Except it didn't work. Christ, he was wiped. I thought: Thirty years old is too young to get that tired that fast. Maybe that was why he was always trying to jump the gun, pushing for an arrest. The guy had no stamina. He couldn't keep it up for a long investigation.