Jonathan Kellerman - Guilt

The Grill bustles pleasantly at dinnertime. During lunch it roars, filling up with Industry testosterone, every power booth occupied by movers and shakers and those too rich to bother doing either. Each bar stool is occupied but no one gets drunk. Platters of food are transported smoothly by an army of white-jacketed waiters who’ve seen it all. Sometimes tourists and others naive enough to venture in without a reservation bunch up at the door like immigrants seeking asylum. A trio of hosts seems genuinely remorseful when they reject the unschooled.

My hiking duds were far below the sartorial standard but you’d never know it from the smile of the woman behind the lectern. “May I help you?”

“I’m meeting Brent Dorf.”

“Certainly.” She beckoned a waiter with an eyebrow lift and he led me to a table on the south side of the restaurant, concealed by the center partition.

Far from the see-and-be-seen; Brent’s clout was beta.

He was hunched over a Caesar salad, forking quickly as if he needed to be somewhere else yesterday. When he saw me, he didn’t stop eating. A millimeter of white wine remained in his glass.

The waiter said, “Cocktail? Or Chardonnay like Mr. Dorf?” and handed me a menu.

I said, “Iced tea’s fine. I’ll also have a Caesar.”

“No croutons, dressing on the side, like Mr. Dorf?”

“Dressing and croutons are fine. Anchovies, too.”

The waiter smiled approvingly, as if someone finally had the sense to do it right.

Brent said, “Lay on the calories and the sodium, easy for you skinny folk.”

He was thinner than me, had the wrinkles and sunken cheeks to show for it. His head was shaved, his oblong hound-dog face had been barbered so closely that I wondered about electrolysis. Last time I’d seen him he’d been thirty pounds heavier and sported a soul patch.

I said, “You’re not exactly obese, Brent.”

“Good tailoring, you don’t want to see me naked.” He looked at the ramekin of salad dressing at his right elbow, considered his options, pushed it away. “I’m under pressure, my friend.”

“Tough job.”

“Not that pressure, body pressure.”

“Honestly, you look good, Brent.”

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s relative,” he said. “Got myself a twenty-eight-year-old dancer with statue-of-David definition, I’m talking physical perfection.” He sighed. “Todd claims he loves me but we both know he’s out for the good life. By both of us, I don’t mean him and me, I mean you and me. Seeing as you’re a mental health sage.”

My tea came.

Brent said, “How’s your gorgeous other?”

“Terrific.”

“Robin, Robin,” he said. “I always thought she was special. A knockout who knows how to use power tools? Sexy.”

“No argument, Brent.”

His eyelids descended, half hooding irises the color of silt. He looked around the room, bent closer, lowered his voice. “So you want to know about Lancelot and Guinevere.”

“Anything you can tell me.”

“Funny,” he said, “I figured you could tell me .”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I sent them to you. Referred them. Figured by now you’d have all the insights.”

“That was you?” I said. “They canceled, never saw them.”

“Figures,” he said. “They’re big on that.”

“Canceling?”

“Reneging.” His hand tensed, gave a small wave and brushed against his glass, knocking it over. The minuscule amount of wine was no threat as it dribbled to the tablecloth, but he flung himself back as if escaping an avalanche. High-strung type.

When the waiter came over to help, he barked, “I’m fine, just bring his food.”

“Yes, sir.”

I drank tea as Brent checked out the adjoining booths. No one paid attention to his scrutiny.

“So they never showed up,” he said. “Well, they fucked me over big-time, that’s why I’m happy to give you dirt. But first tell me why you need to know about them.”

“Can’t.”

“Can’t?”

“Sorry, that’s all I can say, Brent.”

“Ooooh, big giant police mystery? Got to be juicy if that cop has you on it.” He winked. “Another O.J. thing? Blake? Something better?”

“Not even close, I was hoping you’d get me closer.”

“I do the giving, you do the taking?” He laughed. “So you’ve met Todd.”

My salad arrived. Brent lifted an anchovy from my plate, chewed, swallowed. “Blood pressure’s probably through the roof now, but yummy.”

“So how’d you come to refer them to me?”

“I was doing a deal and the issue came up. I think kid-shrink, I think you.”

“What kind of problem were they having?”

“How should I know? I never talked to them.”

“Your people set it up with their people. Then you took lunch.”

“Ha ha ha. As a matter of fact, yes, that’s what happened. But high-level people. People authorized to make decisions. We were at that stage by then, I thought I had the deal nailed.”

An index finger massaged the empty wineglass. Reassuring himself he was steady. He said, “My house has a wine cellar, I’ve got twelve hundred bottles, more than I’ll be able to drink, and Todd doesn’t touch alcohol.”

“Embarrassment of riches.”

“Yeah … anyway, that’s it. Someone asked about a therapist, I said I knew someone.”

“They asked for a child therapist, specifically.”

“Hmm,” he said. “I think so-this was what, two years ago?”

“Just about.”

His eyes drifted toward the bar, followed the entry of four men in suits and open-necked shirts. And loafers. He started to wave, stopped when they failed to notice him. Or ignored him. They continued to a corner booth. He finished his wine.

I said, “No hint about what the problem was.”

“Ri … ight.” Still checking out the room.

I ate salad as he gave the anchovies an occasional lustful look. “I need to be honest, Alex. It wasn’t something I thought much about, I was concentrating on the deal. Besides, I get that kind of thing all the time.”

“Requests for referrals.”

“Doctors, dentists, chiropractors, masseuses. All part of the job.”

“Knowing the right people.”

“Knowing the right matches, who fits with who. I figured you’d be okay for them because you have all the right paper, probably wouldn’t fuck up.”

I smiled. “Thanks for the endorsement, Brent.”

“They canceled, huh? So what else is new.”

“Why’d they bail on your deal?”

“Not my deal, a deal between titans, I’m talking A-est of the A-list, something that could’ve been huge . I set it up elegantly, if it had gone through, I’d never have to think about anything for the rest of my life.”

“Blockbuster.”

“Blockbuster times a quintzillion, Alex. I’m talking action, romance, long and short arcs, merchandising potential up the wazz, sequels that would’ve gone on for infinity. I’m talking the biggest thing they’d do together, wa-aaay bigger than Passion Power and that piece of shit pulled in heavy eight figures with overseas distribution. The upside would’ve been astronomical. More important, I staked my word on it, staked my fucking soul. Everything was in place, contracts drawn, clauses hammered out, legal fees alone cost more than entire pictures used to rack up. We were set up for a signing, going to make a big thing about it, press conference, photo ops. The day before, they change their mind.”

“How come?”

“People like that have to give a reason?” His fist hit the table. The wineglass bounced. He caught it. “Gotcha, you little bastard.”

Beckoning the waiter, he brandished the glass. “Take this away, it’s annoying.”