Bruce Wagner - Still Holding

Cassandra choked as she laughed, fizzing up tiny sprays of Diet Pepsi that cooled an exhalation of cigarette smoke.

“Now, hey, Cass,” rebuked Grady. “Don’t be like that. When we party, everybody parties!”

A bank bureaucrat spoke up, and the lawyers motioned their clients to gather round — time to get serious. The families of the men hung back respectfully.

“What’s going on?” whispered Becca.

“Payback,” said Rusty in like tones. “I told you: Grady got shot by Rampart. LAPD planted dope on him. Did nineteen months. Got out three years ago, when Perez talked. Took this long for the settlement.”

“Settlement?”

“One point eight.”

“One point—”

“Mill.”

“But who are the others?” she asked, not really comprehending.

“All plaintiffs. Grady said some are detainees — guys held in jail longer than they were supposed to. That’s a no-no. Class action, big time.” Becca couldn’t keep up. “The county had to fork over twenty-seven million. See the chick standing next to him? To Grady? She got busted on some domestic violence thing. They held her an extra day and strip-searched her. Ugly bi-atch. Screws must’ve been hard up! Well, she’s rich now. For that kind of money, I’d do twenty-four hours standing on my head — or sittin on a dick. That’s what’s called a detainee. Most everybody here has the same attorneys.” He nodded toward a charismatic, black-stockinged woman in a pantsuit. “Ludmilla Vesper-Weintraub. She’s got a thousand clients, I shit you not. And every one of ‘em is gonna be motherfuckin rich.”

“But the money they got for their little girl…”

“That don’t have nothing to do with this. Can you believe it? They won the lotto twice! Can you fucking believe the karma of these people? Wheel of Fortune, man. Blazing Sevens. ”

Grady bounded over. “The moment has come! The time is upon us!”

“What’s happening?” asked Rusty.

“They’re gonna dole it out, soul man. Then we are going to get our asses over to Gardena! We are going to get in that limo and cruise on down to Hustler Casino! Gonna play me some twenty-one. ”

Cassandra kissed her husband, deliberately regurgitating a stream of soda into his unsuspecting mouth. Grady belched it back at her, and they both laughed gutturally.

“See that jail-face?” said Grady to his friends. He pointed surreptitiously to a short, muscle-bound skinhead standing in a corner with his wife and kid. “He got two million for doing less time than I did. Fucker already spent half his life in the penitentiary. I asked him what his thing was, and you know what he said? ‘Raping niggers.’ ”

Deities

LISANNE FINALLY CALLED to say she was pregnant. Robbie didn’t have much of a response. At the end of the brief conversation he told her to take care of herself, as if she’d said she was down with a cold or the flu.

• • •

TIFF’S OFFICE LET Sotheby’s know that Lisanne would be picking up the item. When she got there, they were friendly enough but made her show ID.

She’d thought about bringing Kit something personal — a flower, maybe, to grace the gift — but discarded the notion as amateurish. No coy upstaging allowed. Something like that might get back to Tiff. No, she would just have to be as charming and low-key as she could, in spite of her schoolgirl jitters. Besides, Tiff was the one who deserved the flowers. It really was awfully grand of him to have engineered the meet.

When she arrived at the beach location, a cop directed her to a parking space beside the famous Indian motorcycle. That’s when her heart began to pound. A baby-faced A.D. appeared and led her to Kit’s trailer. She cracked herself up with wild, nervous thoughts along the way. She imagined the star, a legendary on-set practical joker, coming to the door nude with a big veiny hard-on. They knocked at the trailer’s door, and there was no answer. Just as they turned away, Lisanne said, “Wait! Something’s wrong. I can feel it.” Before the A.D. could restrain her, she burst in to discover Kit on the floor, facedown. She began resuscitation efforts as her escort ran for help. The star, in diabetic semicoma, dumbly began to explore her mouth with twitchy, treacly tongue as she breathed warm life into his grateful bronchi—

A slender brunette in a headset answered the door. She smiled in a way that made the already paranoid Lisanne certain that Mr. Loewenstein had tipped them off about the “messenger” and her minor crush. The gorgeous, multitasking assistant motioned her in.

“What’s happening with Aronofsky?” The unmistakable voice came from deeper inside. “Are we supposed to meet?”

“Darren’s on his way back from Boston. We’re trying to set a place and a time.”

“He can come to the house — wherever. And, Xan? I want to call Spike. At home.”

Without warning, Kit emerged, barefoot in blue jeans. At first, he didn’t see Lisanne. He wore a tight cotton T, and actually stretched in front of her. A tattooed spiritual symbol floated above a hipbone.

“I want to find out if my homeboy Alfalfa is full of shit,” he said, winking at Lisanne. “But that’s not really accurate. I know he’s full of shit. I just want to find out how much.” He turned his full attention to the visitor and said, “Hi.”

“Hi.”

She waited to see if he recognized her from that time at yoga (she hoped he didn’t) but there wasn’t a flicker. Lisanne introduced herself, announcing that she was an emissary from the “offices” of Tiff Loewenstein. She said it drolly, as if speaking of a cardinal. She wanted to come off just a little bit sophisticated, and it seemed like he appreciated that and got where she was coming from. She reiterated that Mr. Loewenstein was adamant in his desire the package be delivered personally, and that she was performing her duties as his “special envoy.”

He took the box and opened it as he parodied the studio chieftain railing about his “tribute addiction.” Aside from the occasional impulse to prostate herself at his feet, the besotted go-between was relatively at ease.

“Wow,” he said, pulling the figure from a beautiful velvet sack. Xanthe came over to gawk.

It was a golden Buddha, mounted on dark wood, without question the most beautiful thing Lisanne had ever seen. Kit read from a creamy insert card that fixed its provenance to the thirteenth-century. His finger delicately transcribed the air above its head.

“The crown symbolizes reaching enlightenment,” he said, with casual authority. “Usually they’re five-pointed.”

The transcendent sculpture sat in lotus position. With deft elegance, one of its hands reached over a leg to touch the ground.

“Touching the earth,” said Kit. “To touch the earth spirit means that he’s conquered Mara, the world of illusion.”

“It’s so beautiful,” said Lisanne.

That was all she came up with, but she was glad to have said anything.

“What’s it made of?” asked Xanthe.

He traced a hand over its belly. “Copper.” Kit leaned over, crinkling his eyes in scrutiny. “See the gems in the crown? Whoa. What is that, lapis? And the tiny symbols on the sash? See the little symbols?”

He bade them draw closer. Lisanne could smell him. She felt her leg touch his.

Xanthe called his attention to an envelope tucked within the box. He opened it, reading the note from Tiff aloud. “But I should have got you this. ” Kit removed the paper clip and looked at the photograph beneath that had been ripped from the auction house catalog. The mogul had underscored the accompanying text.