Children of Light Page 2

  From somewhere amid the damp greenery of the garden, a mockingbird was trilling away, sounding a little fife march. For a fraction of a second Walker was beguiled by a shard of memory, the tiniest part of an old dream. It was gone too quickly to be pinned down.

  He got to his feet and went to stand at the window. The bird song came again, under the rush of traffic, stirring recall.

  He had gone away from the balcony and was sitting on the bed with the telephone in his hand when the memory surfaced. He put the receiver down and turned to the window. The bird trilled again.

  He was remembering Lu Anne Bourgeois, whom the greater world called Lee Verger. She had been half on his mind all the previous spring, but Seattle, the show and the dreadful events of the summer had swept everything away.

  Years before, when he and Lu Anne were young and fearless, in the days of mind drugs and transfiguration, they had invented a game together for bad nights. In fact, it was not so much a game as a state of mind to be indulged and they had called it Bats or Birdies.

  Bats or Birdies was played in the worst hours before dawn. Winning entailed holding your own until morning, making it through the night with your head intact to the moment when bird song announced the imminence of first light and day. That was Birdies. Losing was not making it through, losing your shit. Bats. Mockingbirds, with their untimely warbles at ungodly hours, upset the game, making you think that it was morning and you had won through when in fact you were still fast in the heart of night.

  He thought of Lu Anne and his heart rose. She was pale. She had dark blue saintly eyes and a smile that quivered between high drollery and madness. Nine years before, she had been nominated for an Academy Award in a supporting role; her subsequent career, like Walker’s, had been disappointing.

  Long ago, during their time together, Lu Anne had given him Kate Chopin’s novel The Awakening. Its setting was Louisiana in the late nineteenth century; Lu Anne was a Louisianan, Chopin’s book had been a favorite of hers. He had written a script, and every day of its writing she had been with him or in his expectation, so that when the principal character of Edna Pontellier was defined in scene and dialogue, Lu Anne inhabited it utterly. In those days they had dreamed of doing it together but it had not turned out that way.

  Time passed. The book was discovered by academics and declared a feminist document. Lu Anne had acquired a new agent, who was vigorous, female and literate. About a year and a half before Walker committed for the Seattle Lear, ten years after his last revision of the script and six since his last conversation with Lu Anne, a package had been put together.

  A young director named Walter Drogue had been engaged. The Awakening would be Drogue’s fourth picture; he was generally accounted intelligent, original and aggressive. His father, also named Walter Drogue, was one of the industry’s living Buddhas. A director himself for almost fifty years, Drogue senior had been publicly caned, fired upon by sexual rivals, blacklisted, subpoenaed and biographied in French. The father’s name, it was felt, added luster to his son’s project, and the son’s price, like Walker’s and Lu Anne’s, was not immoderate.

  A producer of some probity took the picture over. One of the majors was induced to finance and distribute. It was all perceived as prestigious, timely and cheap. There was a real possibility that the interests involved might find themselves in control of a well-made picture that would generate good reviews, awards and, with the right handling, a favorable profit line. A vestigial social impulse was being discharged. Somewhere, deep within the Funhouse, they had opted for a calculated risk.

  After shooting most of the summer in New Orleans, the production had moved, for convenience and economy, to the Drogues’ favorite Baja location at Bahía Honda. The elder Drogue had been filming there for many years and had bought hotel property through a nominal Mexican owner. Thus he was able to serve as factor to his own productions.

  As far as Walker was concerned, it was a little late. He had been asked down and declined. Probably, he thought, to their relief. There was also the matter of Lu Anne, his dark angel. They had survived their last outing but it had been close. They had survived because they were both young then and married and motivated and skilled survivors. It would not be the same now.

  But stoned, abandoned, desolate—Walker found himself listening to birdcalls and thinking of her. His heart beat faster. It had not been quite six years, he thought. She had kissed him casually. He imagined that he could recall her touch and when he did it was the woman he had known a decade before who presented herself to his recollection.

  She was married again, to a doctor; she had children. His business now was to save himself and his own marriage, restore his equilibrium. What we need here is less craziness, he told himself, not more.

  Then he thought: A dream is what I need. Fire, motion, risk. It was a delusion of the drug. The production’s location office number was in his black book. He found himself with his hand on the phone.

  Yours in the ranks of death.

  Trapped within some vertiginous silence, he dialed the far-off number. At the first ring he hung up in terror.

  A few minutes later, it seemed to him that he was perfectly well again. When he picked up the telephone it was to confirm luncheon with his agent’s office.

  At the agency, he got Shelley Pearce on the line. She was Al’s assistant, a Smithie who had gone through the Yale Rep some years after Lu Anne. She had been a student of Walker’s at an acting workshop; he had gotten her her first job, as a gofer on a production at U.A. He had introduced her to Al.

  “Hello, Gordon,” Shelley said. She sounded glad to hear from him and he felt grateful.

  “Where were you?” he said. “Every night I searched that sea of pale immobile faces. No Shelley.”

  “You kidding, Gordon? King Lear? You think I got time for that shit?”

  He laughed.

  “Yes, Gordon,” Shelley said, “yes, I was there. I saw you. You were wonderful.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Wonderful, Gordon. Wonderful, O.K.?”

  “I thought so too,” Walker said. “I felt underappreciated.”

  “Didn’t you see the L.A. Times?”

  “Acceptable,” Walker said. “But faint.”

  “Don’t be greedy,” Shelley said. “Al will bring you some clippings to slaver over at lunch.”

  “Why don’t you and I have dinner tonight?” he asked her suddenly. “Why don’t we go to the San Epo Hotel?”

  She was silent for a moment.

  “How are you, Gordon? I mean, how are you doing?”

  “Not so good,” he said.

  “Sure,” she said. “The San Epo, sure. Sunset. Know when sunset is? It’s in the paper.”

  “I’ll call the Coast Guard.”

  “You drinking?” she asked. “You better not stand me up.”

  “I’ll be there,” he said.

  Arriving at Musso and Frank’s, Walker settled in at a banquette table and ordered a martini. Keochakian came in fifteen minutes late to find him ordering a second.

  “Bring me one too,” Al told the waiter.

  Keochakian studied his client. He had hard, unconfiding eyes behind thick tinted glasses, the face and manner of a Marseilles numéro.

  “How are you, Gordon?” He shook Walker’s hand and gripped his shoulder. “How are Connie and the kids?”

  “They’re dead, Al.”

  The agent looked at him without expression.

  “Hey, that’s funny, Gordon.”

  “You always ask. I wondered if you were listening.”

  Keochakian bared his teeth.

  “I always listen. I want to know. I’m a family man. I’m not like you, you fuck. They’re wasted on you.”

  “Connie left me,” Walker said.

  “I don’t believe that,” Al said. “It’s impossible and I reject it.”

  “She left me a most eloquent letter. A bill of particulars. She seemed very determined. She’s in London.�
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  “Know what I think? I think she’ll come back. I’m sure of it. If you want her to.” Keochakian sipped his drink and grimaced. “I presume you want her to.”

  Walker looked down at his folded hands and nodded slowly.

  “Face it, man. Without her you’re fucked. You’ll go down the tubes. You have to get her back.”

  “She has her pride.”

  “Now you know,” Keochakian said.

  “I can’t talk about it today,” Walker said. “I’m too scrambled.”

  “That’s fine. But when you do want to talk about it let me know, because I have a few things to say on the subject and I have the right to an opinion.”

  Walker chewed his lip and looked away.

  “So what do you want to eat?” Al asked.

  “Since we’re having martinis,” Walker said, “I’m thinking liver.”

  “The liver is good,” Al said. He signaled for a waiter and was attended at once. They ordered. Under his agent’s disapproving eye, Walker called for a half bottle of cabernet.

  “Tell me about Seattle.”

  “I could spend the rest of my life doing Lear” Walker said. “I’d like to do it all. The Fool. Gloucester, Cordelia. The fucking thing is bottomless.”

  “Shelley saw you.”

  Walker smiled. “She said. She’s my turtledove.”

  “Would you like to work?” Al asked. “I have something good.”

  “When?”

  “They’d want to test this week. But they asked for you specifically, so I think that’s just a formality.” He was frowning. “Are you tied up or something? Why is it important when?”

  Walker made no answer.

  “You into something? Will you have a script for me?”

  “No,” Walker said. He cleared his throat. “I thought I’d go down to Bahía Honda and look in on The Awakening.”

  Al squinted through his green-shaded glasses and shook his head.

  “Why?”

  Walker shrugged. “Because it’s my baby. I want to see how they’re treating it.”

  “I thought we went through this,” Al said. The waiter brought the wine for Walker to taste. When it was poured out, Keochakian covered his own glass with his hand to decline it. “I thought a decision had been made and I thought it was the right one.”

  “I’ve decided I want a look-in.”

  “A look-in,” the agent said, a toneless echo.

  “Make my presence felt.”

  “They don’t want you down there,” Al said.

  The main course arrived. Walker poured himself a second glass of wine.

  “They asked for me once,” Walker said.

  Keochakian took his glasses off and shrugged. “They didn’t care, Gordon. Walter thought he might pick your brain a little but he certainly doesn’t need you now. He’ll think you’re crowding his act.”

  Walker picked up a fork and looked at his plate.

  “I’d like to, you know.”

  “They won’t pay. They don’t require you.”

  “I’ll pay. I’ll go as a civilian. For the beach.”

  Al addressed his liver and onions.

  “I think this is unprofessional.”

  “I don’t see why,” Walker said. When he began to eat he found that he was very hungry. “It’s not unheard-of.”

  “You’re going to see Lee Verger,” Keochakian said. He was avoiding Walker’s eyes.

  “It would be nice to see Lu Anne. Look, I’ve got some stake in the picture. Why shouldn’t I go down?”

  “Because you work for a living,” Al said. He spoke very slowly and softly. “And I have work for you.”

  “I’m not ready,” Walker said vaguely.

  “It’s a fun part. It’s big. A faggoty intellectual villain. You’d have a blast.”

  “I feel the need to go down to Mexico for a while. When I get back—I’ll be refreshed. I’ll be able to work.”

  Keochakian leaned his knife and fork on his plate.

  “Let me tell you something, Gordon. If you show up on that set you’ll be digging your own grave.”

  Walker laughed bitterly.

  “You think it’s funny, fucker?” Keochakian asked. “You know how you look? You’re sweating fucking alcohol. You think I can’t see your eyes? You think people in this business don’t know what drunks look like?”

  “I’m quitting tomorrow, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Oh,” Al said with a humorless smile, “quitting tomorrow. That’s nice. That’s good, Gordon. Well, I suggest you do that, pal. And I suggest you leave Lee the fuck alone.” He put his fork to the meat, then set it down again. “I mean, go retrieve Connie. Lee doesn’t need you. You’re the last thing she needs. Whereas Connie for her own sick reasons does.”

  “I need a trip. Travel is therapy for me.”

  Al looked at him and leaned forward across the table.

  “If you’re ever unable to work, put yourself in a hospital.”

  “Please, Al.”

  “Gordon,” Keochakian said, “ten years ago this might have been a joke but it’s not a joke now. Take the cure, man. People do it all the time.”

  Walker put a hand to his forehead.

  “You have the money. Do yourself a favor. Get out of circulation and dry out. Go East. New England. It’s autumn, they have some good places there, you won’t see anyone you know.”

  “I’d go bananas,” Walker said. “A place like that.”

  “Maybe it has to be done, Gordon.”

  “Well,” Walker said in a placatory manner, “we’ll see how it goes.”

  A busboy came and removed their plates. Walker poured wine.

  “Too bad you won’t do this thing I have for you. It might get you television.”

  “Is that what I want?”

  Keochakian’s eyes seemed to glaze. He stared into space and scratched his chin.

  “I think I’ll grow a beard, Gordon. A goatee, what do you think?”

  “Good, Al. That’d be good.”

  “Don’t you dare go down there,” Al said. He shook his finger before Walker’s face. “Don’t you dare undo all the work I’ve done.”

  “Sure, Al,” Walker said. “Hey, what work, man?”

  “Fuck you, Gordon.”

  Walker waited, half expecting him to stand up and leave. They both sat tight, facing one another.

  “We made a very favorable deal, financially,” Al said calmly.

  “My best fee,” Walker said. “A record.”

  “Exactly. We also dealt with some typical Walter Drogue-like ploys.”

  “Did we?”

  “Yes, we did, Gordon. You may remember his concern over the feminist perspective.”

  “I wasn’t aware of it.”

  “Walter was worried about the absence of a feminist perspective. He gave us a lot of shit about this. Know what was on his mind?”

  “I can guess.”

  Keochakian smiled thinly.

  “He wanted a writing credit. Not for some broad—for him. He saw the script was good. He thinks the thing might go. He wanted a writing credit for his vanity and to jack more points out of them.”

  “Well,” Walker said. “Walter’s a great feminist.”

  “Definitely,” Al said. “I hear his father was an even greater feminist. Anyway, that fucking ball would have rolled seven ways from sundown but it would have stopped on a writing credit for Walter Drogue. We were able to checkmate these numbers. We saved your points and credit.”

  “He never heard of the novel before I did the script.”

  “He thinks he did.”

  “This time last year,” Walker said, “he thought The Awakening was a mummy movie. Now he thinks he wrote the book.”

  “That’s how he is, Gordo. And if you go down there and act like a rummy and mess with his actress you’ll play right into his hands. He thinks he can swallow you with a glass of water.”

  “Did he say that?” Walker asked, smiling.

/>   “Words to that effect. And they’re all running scared because Dongan Lowndes is down there doing a big magazine piece on the filming. They’re afraid he’ll make assholes out of them and screw the project.”

  “Well,” Walker said, “how about that?”

  Dongan Lowndes was a novelist whose single book, published eight years before, Walker much admired. In the intervening years, Lowndes had turned to nonfiction writing for quality magazines. Most recently he had been writing on such subjects as Las Vegas crooners, self-publicizing tycoons, fatuous politicians and the film industry. He wrote well and bitterly and they feared him.

  “Does he think he can swallow Lowndes too?”

  “They’re hoping to charm him.”

  “Maybe with Lee, huh?”

  “This is a Charlie Freitag production, Gordon. You know Charlie. He figures …” Keochakian raised his eyes heavenward. “Christ, who knows what he figures? He’s a culture vulture. He thinks it’s a class picture and he thinks Lowndes is a classy guy. He thinks he’ll get a friendly piece and it’ll be good for the picture.”

  “Whereas in fact Lowndes can’t get it on to write and he hates to see people work. He’ll nail them to a tree.”

  “Tell Charlie,” Al said. He watched Walker sip his wine. “Hey, you’re a little bitter too, huh?”

  “Lowndes is a fine writer,” Walker said. “I hope he never writes another novel in his fucking life.”

  “Terrific, Gordo. You’re just what they need down there. You can hassle Lee and piss on the press. Get drunk, start fights. Just like old times, right?” He leaned across the table and fixed his Vieux Port stare on Walker. “You’ll hurt people. You’ll hurt yourself. I’m telling you to stay away.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Walker said.

  “Please,” Al said. “Please think.”

  He took a file folder full of press clippings from his attaché case and handed them to Walker.

  “Enjoy yourself. Sober up. Call me in a couple of days and we’ll talk about what you should do.” He called for the check and signed it as the waiter stood by. “I mean, what if Connie comes back or calls and you’re off fucking up somewhere? Don’t do anything. Don’t go anywhere until you’re sober.”