FAY HAD LEFT WITH VINCE BAKER in the morning. Walked out the front door by his side and kissed him good-bye on his goddamned porch steps. Unbelievable. She actually had had the gall to get out of bed and play house. After she cleaned up some of the dishes to make some room on the kitchen counter, she had managed to take his lone egg and three pieces of bread and stretch them into a minimal breakfast for two. Covered in his white terry robe for privacy, Baker could barely eat. Fay was watching him. She had had that falling look in her eye. The dreamy one. The princess in the castle who had been kissed by prince charming, thereby releasing the broad and tramp in her out into the night. Some castle. And some princess. She had a sweet face and all, good size hips with a pair of legs to dream about, but let’s face it, she and he had spent most of their night smashed on booze and hope, and for the better part of the evening they had hardly been two compassionate loving human beings bent on connection, but rather lonely hollow frames commanded by the crap they had ingested to hold each other in order to pass the night. Love and commitment were not exactly part of the arrangement.
Baker started to head into the office, but the truth was he didn’t really care anymore about the fucking Herald and Los Angeles water-money politics or hearing about his phantom Sarah Bernhardt story. What he really cared about was getting a real amount of food and coffee into his system so he could feel partway normal and relieve the buzzing in his head.
Out on the sidewalk, the salty air made its way through the city streets and bent the tops of the palms so forcefully that it seemed they might break in their fragility. And while Baker usually would head downtown to C. C. Brown’s and sit at the counter leaned over old-man style and inhaling the steam of the coffee, trying not to be blinded by the shining white tile floors, he couldn’t go there because Fay had taken the morning shift, and if he walked back in she would surely think he was riding in with the stinking glass slipper nestled somewhere between his crotch and his heart. Damn if she had to be working last night. A little self-control can go a long way—especially when taking the long run into account. Now C. C. Brown’s had to be placed on hiatus until the blood and pheromones cooled down. The typical strategy of avoidance would have to be employed until Fay’s romance turned to anger, then to disappointment. Then he could show up again and feign being the object of her pity for men.
He paced the sidewalk. Trying to figure out where he could go for food, safe from women, and safe from politicos. Once his belly was full, then he would try to figure out how he was going to ram his fist right up Graham Scott’s ass and get back onto the water wars. His story would not be blown by the screwups of the Herald newsroom and their idiocies at the Vienna Buffet over a year ago. The real issue at hand was the corporate barons standing to make a fortune over control of the valley’s water supply. But then maybe that is what the Mahogany Row boys were afraid of. Don’t want to bite off the hand that may feed you. Fear is a newspaperman’s poison pill. And the entire goddamn newsroom was popping them like candy. They ought to have their own Hippocratic oath about keeping their constituents free from harm and injustice, and not hide their heads between their legs at the first sign of trouble or questioned advertisers’ dollars. One would think there was some accountability to truth and justice in this business.
He’d straighten all this out.
If he ever got his strength back.
ABBOT KINNEY’S Chautauqua Theater. The name and its namesake both filled suddenly with life. Kinney stood near the entrance to the floor proudly watching Sarah Bernhardt’s company disperse throughout the auditorium. They were like a tactical unit. Specially trained and skilled in their purpose and mission. And though few at first sight had the grace and sophistication of their leader (upon arrival they looked like ragamuffin clowns, with their tousled hair and oversize, rumpled clothes featuring a combination of patterns and bright colors that brought Kinney back to his European days), once they assumed their posts, huddled in their conferences, and began orienting for the various tasks, they looked as proficient as any successful professionals.
He watched Madame Bernhardt skulking by the front of the house, her expression bored and defiant. Pacing sternly along the right side of the stage, then stopping to lean back and drift her stare vacantly to the rafters. Occasionally one of the clowny stagehands would approach her in obvious nervousness, standing patiently to ask her opinion. Bernhardt would listen with her chin held up properly, punctuating her attention with a slight but mannered nod. And she never once looked directly at the stagehand. Her eyes remained focused on the ceiling, except for when she drew them down to emphasize disapproval or surprise. This time, as with the others, she threw her hands up in the air and turned her head in a cliché of French disgust. The stagehand walked away when her arms finally lowered, and she began pacing again, fidgeting her fingers at her side. And though Kinney was suspect of her ability to manage her life at any higher degree than that of a blind, flatulent lapdog, he could not deny the power of her luminescence as it filled the room—even in such a moment of ordinariness.
Max Klein walked up to Kinney. “It is amazing, isn’t it? How the hands of men can transform an empty room into a breathing village so easily.”
Kinney nodded. “Is Madame Bernhardt upset?” he asked. Klein seemed barely capable of maintaining her. From where Kinney stood, it seemed like the diva walked right over her manager day and night. It’s a wonder Max Klein never went the other way and ended up married, for how much he appeared to like to be stepped on by women.
“Why would you ask?”
“You are making sure she is content, right? I would just like everything to run smoothly from this point on. Although I don’t think a little public outburst now and again regarding the bishop would be the worst thing to happen to us. But let’s make sure that we plan for it. No more chances with the press.”
“I will make sure to relay that to her…Is her car parked along the pier?”
“I saw it myself.”
“It is good for occasions of momentary solace. Sometimes even the sun needs to hide behind the clouds for a while.”
“Well, I look forward to seeing her shine.”
“You will soon see Sarah’s brilliance. There are just some technical difficulties to be determined. Differences of opinions, you know.”
“Is it the hall?”
“It is more a matter of having an empty hall. It leaves more room for discussion.”
“The auditorium is fine, I hope?” Kinney asked.
“The auditorium is fine.”
“And Madame Bernhardt?”
“I have told you—she too is fine.”
Kinney said he was glad to hear it. Since the episode on the pier he had had a needles-and-pins stomach about this performance. He really did not have any secrets, nothing to hide about his business dealings and such, in fact he had made the point with all his accountants that every transaction and deal that had been made to bring Venice of America to life should be free and clear of malfeasance. He had worked hard to keep a clean reputation, limiting his newspaper contacts to benign press releases and general statements. So far there had been very little interest in Venice, but he knew they were waiting. Newsmen like Vince Baker, who made a career out of making the major players sweat. In fact, when Kinney had seen him the other day during the fishing fiasco, he felt sure that Baker would churn that drama into something that somehow implicated Venice of America. He just wanted to keep reporters like that away and control the news of Venice himself by feeding anecdotes to the entertainment guys. Bernhardt was a risk. He knew that. She had a reputation for speaking out or doing crazy things, so maybe that pier incident should not have come as too big a surprise (although her reputation clearly had the potential to be an asset). He just had to keep a sharper eye on things. It was a gamble he needed to take. How else could he get a star of her caliber to his place? Against his better instinct, he was willing to trust Max Klein’s ability to hold the reins. But one slipup and Kinney was taking control of the whole production, and don’t think for one moment that he was afraid of the reputation and brilliance of Sarah Bernhardt. The only thing that scared him was the newspapers. Not Sarah Bernhardt. Not the Catholics. Just guys like Vince Baker. Just the gutter press.