Bruce Wagner - I'll Let You Go

“What do they give her per movie now?” Dodd asked earnestly.

“Two, maybe three,” said Trinnie.

“She’s very talented,” said Joyce. “Did you see that fabulous film she did with Susan Sarandon?”

“It was shite ,” said Trinnie.

Dodd laughed, and Joyce wasn’t pleased. The old man inclined his head, cuing his daughter to enlighten him. “Boulder Langon is Lucy’s best friend. She’s twelve years old, and they give her three million a movie.” His eyebrows knit dramatically as he chuffed at the figure. “So I’m parked at the curb listening to this horrible little girl and her clique from hell dish some punk actor. They want to know who he’s dating, and Boulder says, ‘A nobody.’ They keep pressing for the girl’s name until Boulder — this twelve -year-old — says, ‘A nobody! She’s a pedestrian!’ A ‘pedestrian,’ can you believe ? And the sex . My God, the sex! You know what they say? They say, ‘Did you run barefoot?’ That’s what they ask each other. Did you run barefoot? Know what that means? Did you sleep together without protection— that’s what it means. And these aren’t even teenagers! So what kind of message are we sending when you load them up on the BBJ and—”

“Joyce,” interrupted Bluey. “How are your dead children?”

The room fell silent. Pullman barked at something from far away as a servant entered to clear.

“You mean … the babies?” Joyce cleared her throat, taken aback. “Things are going very … well .”

“How great,” said Trinnie mindlessly, trying to smooth the moment.

“Yes! People seem to be quite moved. I mean, by the program.”

Mr. Trotter gesticulated to the servant, who leaned over while the old man spoke briefly in his ear.

“We’ve talked about this, Bluey,” Joyce said gently. She looked to her father-in-law for help, but he simply smiled and stared benevolently at his plate, as if to wait things out. “We’re looking for a larger cemetery,” she continued, feeling that at this point the broader strokes would be welcome. “I’d like to set aside a bigger space, that’s not so remote — that’s the goal, anyway. We’d like to do it in every state. And have them change the law so the names we give the children are permanent and legally binding.” She’d given the speech many times before, and tonight it came in handy.

“Well,” said Louis, “just don’t put them in the Westwood!”

The others laughed. They hoped Bluey was through; she wasn’t just yet.

“Joyce — were there obituaries for any of the children?”

“We always put a notice in the paper.”

“I haven’t seen any. Are any of them well known?”

“Mother,” said Trinnie, exasperated in spite of knowing better. “These are infants!”

“Mother means famous, case by case,” said Louis, stroking his wife’s arm. “Don’t you, darling?”

“Yes,” she affirmed.

Louis smiled at the others, as if to say, See? Perfectly compos mentis!

Another servant brought the cake. A ragged if uneventful blowing out of candles ensued. Dodd encouraged his guests to adjourn to the terrace for coffee and plates of mousse au caramel et aux poires.

After a brief and cordial discussion of the pronunciatory variants of Ralph , and after complimenting the latter on his “wild suit” (a quilted Issey Miyake), Dodd Trotter affably quizzed the fop on his latest screenwriting gig. Ralph was shy around the billionaire, whom he in fact viewed as a potential source of capital for various projects as yet unrealized. Wishing to please his sister, who actually couldn’t have cared less, Dodd tried to make conversational inroads by mentioning how, with Mr. Hookstratten’s help, he had been delving the poetic and practical depths of The Art of War —which, he said, he’d gathered had become a kind of how-to manual for Hollywood theatrical agents and such. Ralph informed him that the military classic was actually passé, the hot new book being Aristotle’s Poetics: Richard LaGravenese, Steve Zaillian, Callie Khouri and Gary Ross all swore by it, he said — as did the whole fucking WGA. Dodd didn’t quite know what to make of that except to say The Art of War had proved insightful to him as a businessman.

Ralph said he was now more interested in directing than writing for film. The latter, he said, was a loser’s game. Digital technology made it feasible for anyone to realize his vision; desire and a middling electrocardiogram were all a director required. The seriously stroked out Michelangelo Antonioni and Christopher Reeve, valiant quad though he was, both had films in the can, not to mention everyone from third-string DPs to casting directors to special-effects wizards to earnest morons like Kathy Bates, Kiefer Sutherland and Diane Ladd. Nepotism was rampant. Ralph Fiennes had a sister, Martha, who’d turned proud “helmer”; Ridley Scott’s, Larry Kasdan’s and Walter Matthau’s sons all directed. Ralph had read in the trades how Charlie Matthau bought the rights to a thirty-year-old screenplay by one of the late Vertigo scribes— that’s what Hollywood wanted: scripts by dead persons “helmed” by the weak-minded and well-born. A brief conversation ensued regarding some of Dodd’s newly acquired properties, with Ralph paying special attention to the empty prison in the Mojave. The budding auteur had the idea to shoot a DV ensemble piece à la Dogme 95.

With distracted eyes on the distant lights of Olde CityWalk, Trinnie and her father strategized about Bluey. Louis in particular had become worried she might hurt herself during a nocturnal meandering. The two of them sighed; the evening had drawn to a close.

“Well, here’s the man you ought to talk to,” said Bluey as husband and daughter approached. The old man’s face lit up supportively while Joyce’s shrank to a pale rictus.

“Talk to, Mother?” he chuffed inquisitively, patiently putting an arm on her elbow. “Yes, of course! But what about?”

“ You’re the one with the quarry, Louis … my God, Joyce, your father-in-law has a twenty-two-acre open pit, 641 feet deep. It’s in Atlanta, but hell — that represents I don’t know how many millions of cubic yards of waste.”

“What does it mean, darling?” he asked tenderly, the soul of kindness itself.

“The babies , Louis! We’re talking about the babies! Joyce is looking for space to bury the babies and you’ve got space to burn.”

A servant was duly dispatched to gather up Tull and his harlequin friend.

Home at last, he tumbled to bed.

The envelope his cousin had slipped him as they left the Black Lantern for Edward’s apartments was tucked deep inside his overcoat.

Tull flicked on a nightstand lamp. Slung over a chair like a phantom, the cashmere garment suddenly gave him the creeps; he plucked the letter from its pocket, and ran back under the covers.

He pulled out a page dated June 30, 1988. Sentences had been whited out and he wondered if his cousin was to blame. The document attested to progress made in “the case,” difficulties encountered, et cetera.

He moistened his fingers to free the page stuck behind — a Xerox’d note written in cursive. On the letterhead was a personal monogram, M and W intertwined.

Mr. Tabori,

If I was shocked at the reckless insinuation of your employee, I was absolutely dumbfounded by the letter from your attorney which my office received today.

I have referred the matter to my own counsel, who would probably object to my sending this note. I suggest that you retract your slanderous allegations, or you will find this former customer to be a litigious one.