Bruce Wagner - Memorial

“Yes…I think she told me something had been wired—”

“$1,140,000. That came within 24 hours, by the way. And when we get to JFK — we might be dropping anchor in Newark this month, I actually need to make a mental note to check on that so the fleet of limos doesn’t go to the wrong FBO — wouldn’t that be a bungle — the minute we enter Big Apple airspace, Bonita Billingsley will receive a check for 12,000,000 more.”

“But she already got something—”

The old woman struggled to make sense of all the formulas — the forms and formulations. She didn’t want Lucas to think she was the slow one in the group.

“You bet. The amount of which is completely at my discretion to draw upon, as long as it does not exceed the tally allotted to the Windfall Pretax Fund, a number arrived at by a rather Byzantine series of accounting equations with which I promise not to bore you. But they do give me wiggle room, that’s one of the perks of my job. Again, Marjorie Morningstar, here’s the bottom line. If you give me a check for the amount of”—his thick pen had a calculator embedded within, and the slender fingers worked it like a pianist’s—“$563,789.53…if you give me that check tonight, or even tomorrow morning, but tonight would be preferred — I’ll bend the rules, whatever makes you feel comfortable — if you can give me that check, I will hand you a negotiable instrument and bill of exchange for the amount of $2,790,591.57 in a special toast at Spago on Saturday night. A pack of Rolls-Royces — they belong to the hotel — will then ferry the Sisters to their suites at the Four Seasons. Suite Sisters! We’ll have a small afterparty, attended by the likes of ‘unknowns’ such as Maria Shriver, Laura Chick — she’s the City Controller here in LA — and Ray Romano.” He was losing her again. “You’ll sleep the sleep of a babe in the woods. In the morning, you’ll have a lovely bath and breakfast en chambre. Then you and the Blind entourage will be whisked to a private airport in Van Nuys where our sky chariot awaits. Now, if you are opposed —you don’t even have to give me an answer just now — that’s fine. No pressure. We can enroll you in the expedited process, or not. I’ll tell you one thing: at the moment we speak, 3 others are vying to be EAP enlistees, but I only have one more slot. Marj, I want you to know absolutely that it doesn’t matter to me, either way — of course, I’ll be a little sad — and I know you might not be able to get your hands on that kind of money with such short notice. Unfortunately, the figure I quoted is the least I can accept without jeopardizing my job. It’s kind of a silly catch-22: you may not have the money now— but in 90 days, that number will be insignificant. Cause you’ve got 6,000,000 coming down the sluice! So, it’s important for you to hear that I won’t be upset, even though you’re one of my favorites” (he winked) “and that if you’re not with us, I just may curl up in my private bedroom on the G-5 and cry like a baby as they pass the caviar! But seriously, Ms Morningstar, let me know. You have my cell. You have my soul. You have my heart. Give me the word and ye shall be heard.”

The waiter came with fortune cookies and the check.

Marj cracked hers open, tucking the wish into her purse.

CHESTER made a lunch date with his sister at a place Laxmi recommended in Venice, called Axe. It turned out that Joan was a regular, because it was over on Abbott Kinney, near ARK.

They hadn’t seen each other since their stepfather’s funeral. When Chess called to say he wanted to “talk about something,” her antennae went up. He said on the phone he had visited Mom, and that clinched it — Big Brother needed a 2nd helping. She didn’t ask if Marj had already tithed . She didn’t want to know.

He was thin and drawn, and walked with a hobble that struck her as slightly theatrical. Oh boy. I’m gonna get hit up for a bundle. He gave the place a once-over and said he hoped the menu wasn’t “minimalist.” (A lame dig at Joan’s aesthetics.) She told him he’d been pronouncing it wrong. It was ah-shay, she said, not axe.

“Well, you look like you’ve been eating!” he said, with a smile. (In secret sibling language, that meant: 1) You’re rich and you’re lucky; 2) I’m poor and I’m fucked; 3) You’re a middleaged whore; 4) You’ve gained weight because you’re a rich, lucky, middleaged whore.) He launched into the ballad of how his old friend Maurie Levin set him up on a reality show and got him injured. She literally shook her head, bemused. Chester was always putting his foot in it. There was something endearingly pathetic about him: he was some kind of classic, dipped-in-shit, dyed-in-the-wool fuckup. Her brother went on to say he was suing the company that produced the show and that his supercharged lawyer, “Remar” (even the name made her chuckle), was “extremely optimistic” things would “settle out” before a court date was set. Might take a year, though, maybe 2. Joan had already done the math and decided to give him 5 grand; she ran the figures in her head when he 1st called. 5,000 and not a penny more. That was OK. She had enough in the bank right now and it’d actually been a few years since he’d asked. He had the pride thing going but that wouldn’t last forever.

The waiter took his time. It was that kind of place. Both staff and clientele seemed like smug California dreamers, New Age grifters. When the guy finally came, Chess asked for a Coke. He said they didn’t have Cokes, they didn’t have soda. Like Chess had asked for yak urine. (Which they probably did have.) Joan just smiled. She ordered tea and tofu. Her brother had a bowl of rice and chicken, and a jug of weirdass juice.

He made some cursory stabs at catching up. How are your projects, are you seeing anyone, bip bop boop. Even threw in a zinger about Mayne winning the Pritzker.

“Since when do you keep up on the life of Thom Mayne?”

“I do read, you know. My landlady gives me her New York Observer s.”

“Well la-di-da.”

“And LA magazine.”

“That’s a restaurant guide, right?”

“I’m telling you, Joanie, I’ve been to so many doctors’ offices, I’m up on all the zines. I just sit in waiting rooms, reading. Mayne’s doing the Olympic Village in New York, right? Tough -looking fucker. Supposed to be kinda nasty, you know, nasty to his clients. I hate that shit. I wouldn’t last 2 seconds if I was rude to the people who hire me. Ever meet him? Doesn’t he look like that French guy? That actor? The guy from The Da Vinci Code… Reno! Jean Reno. Mayne gives a pretty good interview. Doesn’t he live around here? He did a ‘My Favorite Weekend’—the Times wants me to do one of those. Seriously. Anyway, I was reading this interview where Mayne said an architect’s career doesn’t really begin happening till he’s in his 50s. So your clock hasn’t officially started to tick.”

(In not-so-secret sibling language, that meant: 1) You haven’t made it in your field and probably never will; 2) You are likely to achieve career success only by consenting to be sodomized by an already established architect — and should maybe just shoot for Thom Mayne; 3) If you’re gonna “build” anything, it better be a kid, before you go barren.)

Joan was beginning to wonder why she had agreed to see him. She’d forgotten how gallingly passive-aggressive her brother could be. Maybe she wouldn’t give him the money afterall.