—
Jesse and Frankie were in the taproom at The Gray Gull, away from the din of the crowded dining room. Strings of glimmering mini-lights that were hung above the bar cast a glow that bounced off the oversized mirror behind it, enhancing the room’s muted lighting. The faint tinkling of a piano could be heard in the background.
Frankie was picking at her crab cakes and sipping a California Cabernet. Jesse sliced into his medium-rare porterhouse, his second Carlsberg lager at his elbow.
“So you know more than you let on,” she said.
“Can’t be avoided when you’re a cop in L.A.,” Jesse said.
“Did you ever actually work on a movie?”
“I worked homicide.”
“So you were spared?”
“I was.”
“And now you’re a chief.”
“Yes.”
“With a great many important things to do.”
“Not really. Mostly I write parking tickets.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
She took a sip of her wine.
“How does someone become a line producer,” Jesse said.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No.”
“You seriously want to know?”
“I do.”
She looked at him skeptically.
“Okay,” she said. “Just remember, you asked. I studied to be an accountant, like my dad. After graduation, he helped me get a job at Warner Brothers. My job was to track the daily information flow as it came in from the various movie sets, synthesize it, and then report it to the head of finance. My boss took a liking to me, and before long he upped me to the job of production accountant. I had to be on the set in order to keep careful track of how the money was being spent and then report it to the studio. Is this in the least bit interesting?”
“It is to me.”
“Okay. Sorry. Accountants are generally considered to be notoriously dull.”
Jesse smiled.
“It was important that I be privy to how every penny was being spent and why, because accuracy in reporting that information to the studio was critical. Over time, I worked closely with several of the studio’s best line producers, and as a result, learned their job. I was in New Zealand with a small feature when midway through the shoot, the line producer suffered a heart attack. My boss back in Hollywood suggested that I step into the job. After all, I was on the scene and was an integral part of the process. I knew where all the bodies were buried, so to speak. It made sense. Plus, it was a chance to elevate myself. So I held my nose and jumped.”
“How did it go?”
“I threw up several times each day, but I managed to finish the picture. I’ve been line producing ever since.”
“I like a story with a happy ending.”
“Let’s wait until this one’s in the can before we talk about happy endings. I still have Marisol Hinton in front of me.”
“Meaning?”
“I worked with her once before.”
“And you didn’t like her?”
“It wasn’t a question of liking her. Marisol is permanently tuned to the Marisol channel. All Marisol, all the time. Twenty-four-seven. No one else exists. Nothing else matters.”
“So why are you working with her again?”
“She requested me.”
“So she must have liked you.”
“She and her husband both liked me. She didn’t perceive me as a threat, so I passed muster.”
“Her husband?”
“A small-time actor named Ryan Rooney. You ever hear of him?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Ryan Rooney was in Tomorrow We Love with her. They had the kind of torrid affair that she usually reserved only for members of the crew. Why, I don’t know. He’s as self-involved as she is. It beats me why they got married in the first place. She’s highly competitive. I can’t imagine her being helpful to him. Or to anyone, for that matter. It’s been all downhill for him ever since.”
“Is he in this movie?”
“God, no. Rumor is she accepted the part so she could get away from him. I read somewhere he had taken to smacking her around.”
“Hooray for Hollywood,” Jesse said.
After dinner, they walked the boardwalk to Frankie’s rented waterfront apartment. The warmth of the day had given way to the chill of an early fall evening. She wrapped her coat more tightly around her. She clutched Jesse’s arm as they walked.
The crisp smell of the sea rode in on the coattails of a steady, bracing wind. A galaxy of starlight lit up the cloudless sky. A lone figure walked hurriedly by them, his head lowered against the wind.
“Paradise is a long way from Hollywood,” Frankie said.
“It’s home for me now. I like where I live and how I live.”
“Do you miss it?”
“L.A.?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe the anonymity. It’s hard for me to be private here.”
“And that bothers you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Because?”
“By nature I’m a hermit. I think I’d be happiest living in a cave and spending the winters in hibernation.”
“It’s hard for a police chief to be a hermit.”
“Exactly,” he said.
They had arrived at her building, a new five-story brick-and-glass modern overlooking the harbor. When they reached the main entrance, she turned to him.
“I had a lovely time, Jesse,” she said.
“Me, too.”
“Do you think we can do this again?”
“I do.”
“Goody,” she said.
10
Harry Kaplan, the process server, found Ryan Rooney in front of the trendy industry restaurant Craft, talking with a prospective agent, a toothy shark of a woman in her twenties, dressed entirely in black.
Kaplan interrupted them.
“Mr. Rooney,” he said.
“Yes.”
Kaplan pressed the summons into Rooney’s hand.
“You’ve been served,” he said, before disappearing into the crowd on the sidewalk.
Ryan shrugged.
“It was nice to meet you, Ryan,” the woman said, and hurried away. Ryan watched her leave.
Then he opened the document and began to read. Several lines caught his eye.
“Marisol Hinton vs. Ryan Rooney . . .”
“Reference is made to the prenuptial agreement between the parties. . . .”
“The aforementioned will immediately vacate the premises of the residence located at . . .”
“Mr. Rooney’s executive position at Marisol Hinton Enterprises shall be deemed to have been terminated. . . .”
“No further financial obligations regarding Mr. Rooney shall accrue either to Marisol Hinton or to Marisol Hinton Enterprises. . . .”
Ryan folded the summons, put it in his pocket, walked to the parking lot, and got into his Prius. He sat there for a while, considering his options.
The prenup he had signed deprived him of access to any of Marisol’s assets.
He had very little money, having mostly relied on her largesse for his expenses. He owned the Prius, but his insurance was due for renewal. Without work, his future was uncertain.
He was considering a move to New York, where he might find work in the theater and where Marisol’s influence was less pervasive than it was in L.A. But he would require more cash to establish himself there.
He hoped she would stake him. One final gesture for old times’ sake. He figured she owed him. After all, it was because of her that his career had stalled in the first place.
He switched on the Prius and pulled out of the parking lot onto Century Park Boulevard. The towering skyscrapers of Century City had long since replaced the back lot of Twentieth Century–Fox, which had originally stood there.
All that remained of William Fox’s dream factory was a replica of a New York City street and an elevated train platform on which Barbra Streisand’s Hello, Dolly! had been filmed.