Greg Bear: Dead Lines

Michelle looked tired. ‘Says he has a palooza of a chore for you. Won’t tell me what. Man stuff, do you think?’ Her long legs carried her more quickly over the thick Berber carpeting in the broad hallway.

‘Monkey nuts,’ Peter said.

Michelle smirked. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here.’ She left him standing between walls covered by framed glossies of movie stars. Most of the stylish portraits were autographed, souvenirs of Joseph’s days as a producer. Peter recognized them all: beautiful or soulful people brooding or sunny, feigning humor or dignity, looking inaccessible or seductive, but all seeking approval no matter what attitude they copped. Long ago, he had realized an almost universal truth about actors. They became real only when they were being witnessed, when they were on-screen. Hidden behind doors, alone, or looped around a reel and locked in a dark metal can … For an actor, not being seen, not having an audience, was worse than limbo.

‘All right,’ Michelle said, returning. ‘He’s decent.’ She opened a door near the end of the hall. ‘Joseph, it’s Peter.’

‘Who else would it be, Eliot Ness?’ a voice bellowed in the dark beyond.

Michelle sighed. ‘Ten percent bonus if you leave him a contented man.’

‘I heard that!’

Michelle sighed loudly and closed the door behind Peter.

Joseph sat in a huge leather chair near full-length windows opening onto a false balcony about a foot deep and faced with black wrought-iron railing. Lights from the front drive and the last of the sky glow drew him in broad grainy strokes like chalk on velvet. The room also contained an antique oak bar from a saloon in Dodge City, so the legend went, and two brown leather couches separated by a square black granite table. ‘Goddamned awkward,’ he said. ‘Did Weinstein try to suck you in?’

‘Yeah. Ambition,’ Peter said.

‘In spades.’

Peter nodded. His eyes adjusted slowly to the twilit gloom.

‘Offer you stock to convince me?’ ‘And cash.’

Joseph chuckled. ‘They’ve been yammering at me for a week. Goddamned things don’t work. You’d think they would check that out before they try to hit up a rich old fool.’ There was a strange set to Joseph’s words. ‘Old trumps rich,’ he murmured. ‘And fool trumps old.’ He was staring fixedly through the windows. Peter stood about six feet from the chair. ‘Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. I need you to go see a woman. Interested?’

‘For you, always,’ Peter said.

‘She may be the most charismatic female on the planet. Certainly one of the smartest. If I went personally, she would play me like a farm trout. You, however … You know women better than any man alive. You’ll survive.’

Peter gave a small, dubious laugh.

‘Well, you will. You’ve made it with over two hundred women, photographed maybe two thousand, and Michelle genuinely likes you. That’s a résumé no other man in my experience can equal.’

‘Who gave out my track record?’

‘We’ve known each other a long time,’ Joseph said. ‘I did some research before bankrolling your films.’

‘A bit exaggerated,’ Peter said. ‘I never kept count.’

Joseph lifted his hand, spread his fingers, then let it drop back to the chair arm. ‘Before she met me, Michelle used to know a lot of photographers. Long-haired sacks of fermented pig shit. That’s what she called them. But not you.’

‘I’m respectable?’ Peter asked.

‘Not if you work for me, you aren’t.’ Joseph shifted in his chair. ‘This woman you’re going to meet is seventy years old. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, bar none. I’ve watched her on TV. Her teeth aren’t perfect, but she smiles like some sort of Eastern saint, whatever you call that.’

‘Kwan Yin,’ Peter offered.

‘Yeah, maybe. Her name is Sandaji. Used to be Carolyn Lumley Pierce. She’s from the Bay Area, started out as a New Age groupie, but I checked up on her, and she’s been through hell and come out wiser. Amazing story. She’s holding meditation seminars in Pasadena.’

Joseph’s voice became a low, assertive bellow. ‘I want you to drop a roll of money, ten thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills, into her collection plate. Then ask her my question. Bring me the answer tomorrow morning.’

Peter’s errands for Joseph were varied and often peculiar, but he had never done anything like this. Peter was not fond of New Age types, followers or leaders. They had disappointed him.

‘Directions. Loot.’ Joseph held out a folded piece of paper and a thick roll of money. ‘Don’t tell Michelle. She’s still mad at me for paying a quarter of a million dollars for a watch last week.’

‘Jesus,’ Peter said involuntarily.

‘It’s a good watch,’ Joseph said with petulance. He pulled back his sweater cuff to reveal a wide flash of platinum. ‘Maybe I’ll will it to you when I die.’

‘I’m a humble man,’ Peter said.

‘Well, Michelle’s already in my face, so don’t tell her how much this time, okay?’

‘All right.’ He pocketed the money and the directions. The money pushed against the Trans.

Joseph shuddered. ‘Goddamn, it’s cold in here. Peter, you look gloomy. Worse than me, and I feel like an old cabbage. What’s up?’

‘My friend died. A writer named Phil Richards.’

‘Sorry. Friends … can’t afford to lose them.’ Joseph’s eyes moved beyond Peter to the far corner of the room. ‘Water out there somewhere, reflecting moonlight,’ he murmured. Peter looked up over his shoulder and saw a dim, milky flare play across the ceiling. Then it was gone.

‘What should I ask her?’ Peter asked.

‘I’ve arranged for a private audience. You will absolutely not tell anyone else. I trust you, Peter … but I want you to promise me anyway. Swear to me as much as one atheist can swear before another, all right?’

‘Cross my heart, hope to die,’ Peter said.

Joseph seemed to accept this. He folded his hands in his lap like a schoolboy about to recite. Peter had never seen him so vulnerable. ‘Ask her if she believes it is possible for someone to live without a soul. Ask her in private, not in front of all those salivating white-collar geeks she cultivates.’

‘Someone, live, without a soul,’ Peter said.

‘Don’t mock me, Peter Russell.’ Joseph’s voice was hard and clean. In the glow of the rising moon, his face was the color of an expensive knife.

‘No disrespect, Mr Benoliel,’ Peter said. ‘Just getting my lines straight.’

‘He has been such a lemon lately,’ Michelle said in the entry, holding the door. The veranda lights cast a dull golden glow over the stonework. ‘Please make him feel better.’

‘Isn’t that your job?’ Peter asked.

‘You’re short tonight,’ she observed.

‘My best friend just died,’ Peter said.

‘Oh, shit, really?’ Michelle was shocked and saddened. On her face, the effect was of a curtain drawing open to a new play. She stood straight and let go of the door. ‘How much time do you have?’ she asked. ‘Time for a drink?’

‘You know I don’t drink.’

‘A small glass of sherry for me, ginger ale for you,’ Michelle said with studied grace. ‘We’ll toast your friend.’

They went into the huge kitchen and Michelle sat Peter at the marble-topped counter. Only the counter lights were on and the rest of the kitchen fell back into olive-colored shadows. Peter felt as if he were under a spotlight. Michelle poured two glasses as described and sat at the corner next to him. ‘To your friend,’ she said, lifting her sherry.

‘To Phil,’ Peter said, and felt his shoulders make a quaking motion. He sucked the ginger ale down wrong and started to choke. He used that to disguise the tears, and coughed until the impulse was almost gone.