Christopher Beha - Arts & Entertainments - A Novel

THE NEXT MORNING THE cover of the Daily News showed Susan leaning out the window like a madwoman, throwing old photos into the air. “Three Tykes — And You’re Out!” the headline read. “Drake Tape Wife Expecting Trips, Sends Bum’s Stuff for a Fall.” Eddie found the paper in the lobby of the Metropolitan, a cheap hotel above a parking garage just off First Avenue. He’d often passed the place but hardly noticed it, except occasionally to wonder what kind of person stayed there. When he checked in, the man behind the front desk was watching an Entertainment Daily segment about the Drake Tape on a small black-and-white TV. Eddie worried about being recognized, but the man didn’t turn his attention from the screen while accepting the cash and passing over a key.

The calls had started almost as soon as he left the apartment, mostly from blocked or unfamiliar numbers. After settling into his hotel room, Eddie turned off the phone. He stayed in bed until noon the next day, when the same man who’d checked him in — he seemed to be the owner, or else the place’s only employee — called up to say he needed to pay for another night or else leave. Eddie had no other place to go, but since he didn’t have anything to keep in the room he just left.

He read through the rest of the paper at a diner across the street. Stanley Peerbaum reported that Eddie had been fired, quoting a statement from Luce: “Given the circumstances, we decided it was best for the entire St. Albert’s community, and especially for our boys, if we parted ways with Mr. Hartley.” Peerbaum described St. Albert’s as an “elite private academy on the Upper East Side.” On the facing page there was a brief history of scandals at the school, dating back to the Preppy Murderer. They had dug up random bits of biographical detail about Eddie and still shots from commercials, which might have been collected from the street after Susan emptied the box. The most recent one was eight years old, but Eddie was easily recognizable in it. He closed the paper and put it down on the table. Looking at Susan on the front page, he tried to make sense of what had happened. It wasn’t her anger that puzzled him, but the performance of it. She was not the type for dramatic gestures, but a few cameras seemed already to have changed her. He considered calling the apartment, but he wasn’t sure what he could say, except that he was sorry. He’d already left an apology on Susan’s voice mail the night before. Thinking of it now, he turned his phone on to see if she’d responded. His mailbox was full, but none of the messages were from her. Almost as soon as he turned it on, the phone rang. The call came from a blocked number, but he picked it up. It was more than curiosity; he wanted someone to tell him what was supposed to happen next.

“Is this Handsome Eddie?” a cheerful voice asked.

“Who is this?”

“Eddie, this is Geena Tuff from Star Style. I’m calling to see if you’d like to sit down with me for an interview.”

“No thanks.”

“Think of it as a unique opportunity to get your side of the story on the record.”

“I don’t really have a side of the story.”

“We’re willing to pay ten thousand dollars for the exclusive.”

“Ten grand just to talk with me?”

“You’re a hot commodity right now. But it would have to be an exclusive.”

“I’m afraid I’m still not interested.”

“Can I leave you my number, in case you change your mind?”

“I’m not going to change my mind,” Eddie said.

A text came soon after he hung up: Just in case;) — Geena , followed by a phone number and an e-mail address. Eddie thought of all the calls that had come in already. Ten thousand dollars was just a starting offer. Once he got them competing with each other, it might become a lot more, and he and Susan needed that money. But he couldn’t go to the press without talking to her first.

HE LEFT THE DINER and walked a few blocks, until he passed an empty bar that didn’t seem like the kind of place where news of Dr. Drake traveled. It might be a good spot to spend the afternoon while he decided what to do with himself. Apart from the bartender, the only person inside was an old man with a pickled pink face. A muted TV above the bar played a tampon commercial. Eddie took a seat and ordered a beer.

“Turn the sound up,” the old man said. “Show’s back on.”

They were watching Entertainment Daily.

“Just a week after her release from the hospital,” Marian Blair announced, “a collapse in the studio has friends again worried about Justine Bliss’s weight. Now there are whispers about an addiction to pills as Justine’s father rushes to her side. Meanwhile, executives at the 2True Network discuss canceling Pure Bliss, Justine’s Moody Productions reality show.”

“She’s got to eat something,” the old man announced before swallowing the rest of his drink. “It’s not a healthy lifestyle she’s got.”

“I blame the father,” the bartender said. “He pushed her into music at such a young age, and now he enables her. No one gets into that kind of mess alone.”

Eddie put money down for his drink as the show moved on to a story about Rex Gilbert breaking up with Carla Lender. They would get to Martha eventually, if they hadn’t already. He was curious to see whether anything had changed overnight. He wanted to know where the story stood. After a few more words about Rex, Marian said, “Turning now to Drake Tape news, Turner Bledsoe is standing by his girl, but he has a few harsh words for Martha’s onetime costar.”

The screen flashed to Bledsoe, walking alone down an L.A. street as cameras approached.

“How is this affecting your engagement?” an off-screen voice asked.

“As far as me and Martha go,” Bledsoe said, looking straight into the camera, “everything’s great. This was something she did a long time ago with someone she trusted. But I’d like to give a message to Hartley.”

“What would you tell him?”

“I wouldn’t use words. Let’s just say if I ever run into him I’ll leave an impression.”

“That guy sounds like a real dirtbag,” the bartender said.

“Bledsoe?” Eddie asked.

“That Hartley guy.”

“Well, he got his,” said the man at the bar. “Out on his ass.”

His sharp laugh turned into a lengthy cough.

“If Turner is really looking for Eddie Hartley,” Marian Blair told the camera back in the studio, “our spies might have found him. Reports have the erstwhile actor spending his first night away from his pregnant wife at the Metropolitan Hotel just blocks from his home.”

A picture of the hotel appeared on-screen. Eddie hadn’t noticed anyone following him from the apartment the night before, or anyone waiting outside when he left that morning. But apparently he was easy to find.

“That’s right around the corner,” the bartender said. “I know the guy who runs that place.”

Eddie stood up, leaving his half-finished beer. Back on the street, he took out his phone and called the only person he could think to ask for help.

“Congratulations on the triplets,” Blakeman said by way of greeting.

“What have you gotten me into?”

“I gave you an option. The last I heard you weren’t even going to take it.”

“Well, I took it, and I’m in trouble now. I need a place to crash until everything calms down.”

“Sure thing,” Blakeman said. “I’m at the office now, but I don’t imagine you’d want to come here to pick up keys, unless you want to give the Interviewer an exclusive. Just drop by the apartment any time after eight or so.”

FOR A FEW YEARS Blakeman had shared a house on Washington Square with his cousin Charlie, but they’d been thrown out over an incident with the owner’s fish tank — an incident in which Eddie had played a small, forgotten part. After that Charlie left town, and Max returned to the loft on West Broadway where he’d lived right after college. In those days, Eddie and Martha had spent several nights a week there, but Eddie had hardly visited since Blakeman moved back. That evening, he arrived a bit later — and drunker — than he’d intended, having worked his way downtown by stopping in bars.