Anne Siddons - Fault Lines

“Pring is back then,” Laura said carelessly. “No, I’ve not seen him yet. I’ve been at home, back in Atlanta, just got in this morning. I brought Merritt and Glynn back with me for the screening, but I haven’t had time to call Pring. Is he at home, do you know?”

I stared at her. Atlanta? She did not look at me.

“I hear he’s holed up out at Margolies’s place in Malibu, pitching the new film. It’s about Joan of Arc, or some saint. God knows. Margolies probably remembers Ingrid Bergman in the original. The skinny is that he’ll let go the money only if he likes this version of Right Time and if Caleb can find the right saint for the new one. He’s talking about a nationwide talent search, the old GWTW business—”

“My God, Joan of Arc,” Laura said, and laughed indulgently. “Maybe they can get the collie to play Joan. Burn a saintly dog. That ought to part Margolies with some dough. What does he think of Right Time , have you heard?”

“I don’t think he’s seen it since he asked for the changes,” Corky Tucker said. “Tomorrow night’s the night for all of us. I heard that somebody from the production met him at a party in Malibu and he smiled, though.”

I laughed, thinking he was making a joke, but Laura looked over at me and said, “Whole films, whole careers, have risen and fallen on Margolies’s smile,” she said. “Listen, Corks, do you think you could get three tickets for tomorrow night for me? I’m not going to be any place Pring can call me, and I really do want these two to see the film. I think they think I do porno flicks, or something.”

“Sure, I’ll have three left at the box office for you. It’s at the metroplex in Century City, you know, where we screened Burn . I hear Margolies will be there with most of the Vega brass. Probably won’t be able to hear for all the folding money rustling. Maybe he’ll put all the Fowler-Mason women in the Joan thing. You three are turning heads all over this patio, you know that?”

“Go on with you, you big old tease,” Laura said in a mock belle’s drawl. “You’re just trying to turn our poor heads. Thanks for the tickets, Corky. We’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“Six o’clock. Everybody’s going on to Spago after. Say hi to Caleb for me if you see him before then.”

“I will,” Laura said, and he went back to his table. Everybody at it waved at Laura. Laura waved back, smiling widely. She still did not look at me. I felt the strangeness and unease rise like mercury in a hot thermometer.

“What’s this business about being in Atlanta?” I said.

“I’ll tell you later,” Laura said. “Here comes Poythress.”

Over the years since I left the agency I have formed the habit of talking silently to Crisscross. I tell her things that I somehow never tell other people; when something particularly absurd or embarrassing or appalling occurs I tell her. When I am happiest or saddest or silliest I sometimes tell her, too. I tell her these things in person, of course, when we do meet, but I talk with Crisscross far more often than I see her. When I saw Billy Poythress approaching us around the pool I tuned her in.

“Lord, CC, he looks just like Porky Pig,” I radioed across the miles home. “His cheeks hang down and jiggle and he has a round little butt and little plump bow legs, and that snouty nose. He should have an apple in his mouth. And you should see what he’s got on!”

Billy Poythress did indeed look like Porky Pig, but a corrupted, faintly malevolent Porky. There was something dried-out and unhealthy about him, even though he literally shone. His cheeks and forehead glistened with sweat or lotion, his little eyes glittered in folds of flesh, and he wore a lilac and purple satin baseball jacket and cap that gave back light like sunlit lava. Clay-red hair curled from under the cap. His teeth flashed white in a wide smile, and rings on the hands he held out to us as he trotted across the pool apron glittered, too. Heads at every table swiveled to follow him. Hands lifted in salute. Voices called after him. He acknowledged them all with little nods, but he kept his eyes on us. The eyes on the patio found us and lingered, to see who was, this day, Billy Poythress’s anointed.

He stopped and looked at us, hands clasped under his chin.

“I couldn’t even guess,” he said in a lilting falsetto. “You three have utterly confounded me!”

“I’m Laura Mason,” Laura said, uncoiling herself from her chair and extending her hand to him. He mopped his brow in mock relief, even though he was, I was sure, well aware which of us was Laura.

“As good a guess as any,” he said, and I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck. It was a purely visceral reaction. Nothing good was going to come to Laura from this posturing little man.

She introduced us and he kissed us on our cheeks and patted our hands and said that he should be doing an interview with all three Fowler-Mason girls, and then he settled himself into his seat and looked around the patio. At a slight lift of his plump hand the waiter scurried over, nearly tripping in his haste.

“You’re not Clint; where is Clint?” Billy Poythress said. There was a slight petulance in his voice. Sulky Porky.

“Clint tore his rotator cuff playing volleyball yesterday and had to have surgery,” the young waiter said. “My name is Charles. The maître d’ asked me to take special care of you.”

“Oh, screw his rotator cuff,” Billy said. “What a bother. He knows exactly what I want when. I hate having to go over it all again.”

“I’ll get it right, I promise,” said the waiter, smiling winningly. I felt a curl of anger at Billy Poythress. What a spoiled brat.

“Well, then, I’ll have a split of chilled D’Iberville water, no ice, one wedge of lemon, not lime. You have it; Clint keeps it on ice for me. And then I’ll have a wedge of papaya with the tuna carpaccio and the gazpacho verde with plain croutons, not the garlic, and a plate of polenta with parmesan. You don’t have to shake your head at me; I know it’s not on the menu. Clint always tells the kitchen when I first come in. Make sure the parmesan is Reggiano. And I’ll finish with the lemon crème brûlée and decaf espresso. Lime there, not lemon. Oh, dear. How rude. I’ve gone bumbling ahead of you ladies. Please…”

And he gestured for us to order. The young waiter, scribbling furiously, cast us a wild look.

“Caesar salad and iced decaf,” I said, picking the simplest thing I could find on the menu.

“That sounds good,” Laura said, and smiled at the waiter.

“Same for me,” Glynn said. He smiled so broadly that I thought his peach-fuzz cheeks were going to split. He dashed away.

He was back in an instant.

“No papaya today, but there’s some pretty passion fruit,” he said anxiously. “And the polenta’s gone, but the cook has some nice potato and rosemary risotto, a fresh batch. And just between you and me the crème brûlée has seen better days.…”

His voice trailed off and I looked at Billy Poythress. His face had swelled and gone deep red, and his eyes were lost in slitted folds of flesh, but his smile remained fixed.

“Get Tony for me,” he said, gesturing at the maître d’.

“Sir, I can—”

“ Get Tony !”

The boy turned and fled. Billy Poythress turned to us, face still vermilion with temper, smile still fixed, and said, “This is insupportable. I eat lunch or dinner here two and three times a week. I always mention this place in my columns. I absolutely rave about the food, even though there’s better at half a dozen places on Sunset alone. I put this place on the map with anybody who counts the day it opened; half the people come here because I do. I will not put up with this sort of treatment.”