Because the rules of engagement (or against it) were already set, the lovely suite took on a kind of formal, faintly clinical cast. For one of the few times in my life, I regretted following my dick — suddenly it felt like we were in the sitting room of a mortuary. Miriam poured herself a drink, fetched me a Diet Coke from the perfectly restored fifties fridge, then plunked herself down on the floor with great cross-legged intent. There was something she needed my advice about.
Thad was in trouble with the IRS. He had a lifelong gambling problem and Morgana perennially bailed him out — but no more. (I was shocked his mum had done as much.) The government forced a lien against his Manhattan apartment and he was struggling to make payments that with penalties and interest approached $35,000 a month. Miriam said he was drinking and drugging more than usual since Jack’s death, and enduring extreme writer’s block with the new book as well; whenever he was really bad off, he phoned at all hours to go on about Dostoevsky’s gaming woes. The end result of these agonies was frequent headaches that necessitated “the ingestion of analgesics.” Ironically, the pills caused a rebound effect (actual medical term), which began the vicious cycle of migraines all over again. It was excruciating for her to watch him self-destruct because she held the guy in such high esteem and truly cared so much. She wanted him in good shape for “all the wonderful things coming his way.” “This is his time,” said Miriam — and she really meant it. She had planned a meeting with Mordecai Klotcher because it was her opinion there was a good chance the producer would option one of Thad’s books. Aside from that, she was keen on pursuing the potential game-show franchise William Morris was pushing. She wanted a flurry of meetings and auditions, not just with indie folk but high-power directors who also happened to be long-term fans (Joel Schumacher, Cameron Crowe, and Tim Burton came to mind). Most of all, she wanted Thad Michelet, whose life had been filled with torment, to be happy. In that regard, she was of the tenuous, desperate, wistful opinion that Clea Fremantle was a short-term, stabilizing influence, even though the two “had some history.”
I sat down on the floor opposite her. “You said you needed my advice.”
She was a little drunk. I was tired, my attention still held by the unlikely prospect of sex.
“Well — it’s something I did. I did something, Bertie… and it’s just that now I’m not so sure it was such a great idea. The thing is, I’m not so sure William Morris is the place for him to be. I mean, now. At this juncture. They haven’t gotten him anything for a while — any features, I mean. And that’s his bread and butter! I think they’re a little disorganized. I still do lots of business there so don’t get me wrong. They want him to do commercials. And that’s OK. But he loves doing movies. I mean, if he has to act—which most of the time he’d rather not! — he’d rather be writing but that doesn’t pay the bills. And you know how he likes the obscure theater stuff, but — they’re not exactly lining up around the block to finance a two-act adaptation of I. B. Singer’s short story ‘The Slaughterer’! And the really good indie stuff doesn’t come along that often… and if you wind up doing a little movie and it sucks, it sucks. You know? Suddenly, you’re the person in the little thing that sucked. Whatever. The person who tried to do the hip indie thing and failed failed failed. Not that failing’s a bad thing. But I just don’t think our little guy needs any more practice at this point in time. But in the right feature—a studio feature — oh, Bertie, that’s where he shines. The La Jolla thing was canceled — you knew? — the Beckett. The money fell out. Which wasn’t shocking — to me. And it’s OK because it gives him… he likes to do a big movie because he’s in and out—Bertie, he can do four a year and make a serious chunk o’ change! Which is what he really needs — now. Boy, does he need it! Then he can go write. Or try to. Or do whatever. He can check into Canyon Ranch — that’s what he likes — and write and lose weight and hike. Pilates and all that good stuff. Fact is, he got this job cause of your dad. Your father loved Jack Michelet, loves his work. And that’s fine. But you knew that. Everybody loves Jack Michelet. Isn’t that always how it is? They love the monster? Well, they don’t know Jack. Didn’t. ‘You don’t know Jack.’ Isn’t that how that goes? I mean the name, there’s a game called that? Perry thought it’d be fun, God love ’im — I mean, he loves Thad too, in his way, and that’s fine—fun to have him on the show. Which it would be. Which it is. Right? Class it up. What else is new. Thad’s used to that. The ‘class clown.’ Clown with Class. And that’s OK. As long as he’s getting his goodies. You know, William Morris wasn’t even involved. I mean, they made a nice deal for him, with my help. But… they would have fucked it up. They would have fucked it up if I—”
“Miriam,” I said impatiently. “What was it you—”
“Bertie, Thad is completely on his ass.” She was getting drunker. I began to kiss her neck but she warded me off with a smile and a coy twist of the head. “I mean, financially.” I put a hand on the inside of her thigh and she let me; easier now to pay attention to her tangled speech. “So I had this amazing idea. I called your dad and talked to him.”
“You called my father?”
Now I was intrigued.
“Bertie, I know this is going to sound completely insane. I called your dad and told him — of course I introduced myself and we talked about Jack and how Perry’s a big collector and he told me how he optioned one of Jack’s books, yadda yadda — I told him you and I had met but I swear I didn’t use your name in vain,” she said, with a sexy lift of her brow. “And I asked if he knew Thad was a novelist too. He had no idea! Or maybe he did, but forgot — whatever. But I think he was actually kind of tripped out when I told him. Anyway, I said I was at Barnes and Noble and saw the Starwatch books — the series, right? Starwatch: The Navigators. You know about that, right? There’s like, sixty of ’em. Sixty episodes novelized from however many seasons. And I wanted to know if Perry might be interested — I haven’t even talked to Thad, and I was very clear about that when I spoke to your dad — I asked if he thought anyone — meaning Perry — hel-lo! — might be interested in Thad potentially adapting the episode he was currently shooting. ‘Prodigal Son.’ I mean, into a novel. For the book series. It’s a no-brainer, right? It’s genius! Because maybe that might be fun. And this was a bit of a shot in the dark, OK? Because his agents aren’t thinking about him in those terms. His agents aren’t thinking about him in any terms except, like, doing a Verizon voice-over. I mean, nobody knows what kind of trouble the man’s in, Bertie! Nobody knows the trouble he’s seen!’—she sang the latter in old negro basso, making me hornier—“and even if they did, nobody even fucking cares. So I called your daddy, OK? Because I love Thad and someone has to help him. And I know they probably don’t pay all that much but it could be one of those ‘event’ things. We could turn it into that. A little harmless spin. I mean, Thad’s getting top dollar for ‘Prodigal Son’ and I’m sure I could get him a nice paycheck for adapting it as some stupid fucking paperback they’re probably going to adapt anyway. But that’s not even really the point… I thought if I could at least get him writing again, for money, even if it’s not some fortune, at least if someone’d pay him to write, which he does better than like ninety-eight percent of anyone out there, then maybe the creative juices would start flowing, OK? Right? For his new book. You know? No? Does that not make sense, Bertie, or does that not make sense. Anyway — there ya have it. So I guess what I wanted to know is, well… what do you think? Did I fuck up or did I fuck up?”