THIRTEEN
CALL ME
Nate’s place on Mulholland had once belonged to Erroll Flynn. The eight-acre estate was chock-a-block with limos and exotica when Kendall arrived for the party at seven. The casually-dressed valet could scarcely contain his contempt for the old Avalon as he directed Kendall through the house to the patio out back where Nate held court. A babble of voices mixed with music emanated from the open windows.
The house itself was a one-story, quasi-country manor with steep gables and green trim. Suffering the after-effects of his drinking binge, Kendall wended his way through the crowded living room, recognizing some familiar faces. A man was only as important as his party guests. Nate was obviously important. Kendall spotted Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban chatting to a man who looked like a fireplug with a waxed skull.
Kendall didn’t know a soul there. He wore the standard Hollywood uniform: white T beneath a black silk sport jacket, blue jeans, huaraches. He went to the rolling bar by the pool and got a gin and tonic from a young man with improbable good looks and perfect teeth. Kendall recognized a famous director talking to a distinguished older man in a blue pinstripe suit. He was torn between fannish fawning and discretion. Discretion won. He looked around for his host.
Desmond Krout leaned into a long-haired beauty by a willow tree in the yard, his hands against the trunk on either side of her head.
Nate held court by the barbecue pit, a massive portable gas grill in a circular stone enclosure presided over by another impeccable youth. Nate had his arm around Judy’s waist surrounded by four beautiful people: two men, two women. They had the familiarity of character actors, but Kendall couldn’t place them. One of the women, a tall redhead, had had her face tightened a couple screws too far, giving her that cat look so prevalent among older beauties in the plastic surgery capital of the world.
Kendall hovered at the periphery. Nate acknowledged him with a nod and a finger, finished his anecdote to which the assembled responded a little too enthusiastically. Nate excused himself and came over, pulling Judy by the hand.
Nate let go of Judy and embraced Kendall. “Kendall, baby! Glad you could make it.”
“I can’t believe Nicole Kidman is here!” Kendall said.
“Look around. I think Nicholson’s coming over. He doesn’t live that far. Well, listen. Have fun. Take a look around. Get to know people. See that guy who looks like a fireplug? That’s Dal Lazlo. You have any questions about the script bug him. Listen there’re a couple people I need to liaise with. I’ll catch up with you later.”
Kendall turned and nearly bumped into Ron Perlman. Perlman wore a silk Hawaiian shirt—featuring surfers and hot rods—and had a gray GI Joe beard.
“Whoops,” he said.
“Ron Perlman!” Kendall gushed. “Man, I loved you as Hellboy!”
“Thanks. And you are?”
Kendall stuck out his hand. “Kendall Coffin. I used to draw Dr. Strange.” It sounded so lame.
I DRAW Dr. Strange. Idiot!
“Oh yeah? I always dug the comics, man.”
“I’m storyboarding for Wyrick now,” Kendall said, a little desperate, trying not to sound like a fool.
Perlman excused himself. “You hang in there, Kendall.”
Kendall retreated to the edge of the yard looking down into the canyons, the twinkling lights of the city in the distance. He was out of his element. He couldn’t afford the greens fees at the local golf clubs. He sat in an iron chair and stared into the valley.
He heard the tinkle of ice cubes in a glass.
“Bored, huh?” a woman said.
Kendall turned. There stood a statuesque young woman in a bathing suit that looked like a shark taking a snap of her athletically toned body. Her blond hair framed her face in dramatic bangs. She looked familiar.
Kendall stood. “I’m not bored. I just don’t know anybody.”
“Me either. Sue Brattles.”
They shook hands. “Kendall Coffin.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a storyboarder. I used to . . . I draw comics.”
“Oh. Did you draw Wolverine?”
“No. I draw Doc Strange. What do you do?”
She seemed to lose interest. “Actor/singer/model.”
“You’re waiting tables,” Kendall said.
The corners of her mouth turned down. “You’re funny.”
Something about her flat delivery triggered a memory. Like a curtain going up, he suddenly realized that Sue Brattles played Dr. Myrna Malloy on the short-lived SyFy cult series, Day Trippers, about a group of time-traveling fixers.
“Myrna Malloy!” he said standing.
Sue’s mouth turned down in a smile. “Correctomundo.”
“Man, I loved that show! I wrote to the network when they canceled it.”
“Oh, you were the one,” she said, taking a sip of her drink.
“I drew your character!” He reached for his phone. “Would you like to see it?”
“If I must.”
Kendall almost panted. He dialed up the picture, too late realizing it was perhaps a bit risqué. It showed Sue wearing nothing but bikini bottoms, her back to the viewer, cupping her breasts and looking over her shoulder.
“I, uh, was inspired by that one episode when you all landed in a lake.”
Sue bit her lip. “That’s swell.”
“I’d be happy to send it to you!”
“No thanks,” she said heading back to the patio. “You keep it. If I see you at a con, I’ll sign it for you.”
With a flutter of panic, Kendall realized he was losing her, the woman of his dreams. He trailed after like a homeless puppy. “Are you going to San Diego?”
“Maybe,” she said, looking around for a friendly face. She bee-lined for a cluster of players near the diving board.
“This’ll be my fifteenth year,” Kendall said keeping up, aware of a body moving to intercept like Champ Bailey. Kendall paused and turned.
Nate came at him with a face like a clenched fist. “What do you think you’re doing?” he said tightly, softly.
“What?” Kendall said. Too late for the actress. She was gone with the wind.
“Don’t hassle the stars. Don’t be a fan boy. Be discreet and listen. You wanna get laid, I’ll fix you up.”
“Jeez, Nate! I was just talking to her. She came up to me.”
“Let me introduce you to a few women.”
“What, is she married to a mob boss?”
Nate threw an arm around Kendall’s shoulders and steered him toward the house. “No. But she’s coming up fast, and there’s no way she’s gonna go out with a storyboarder. That’s not how things are done. I could tell you were getting on her nerves just by the way she was walking.”
Shame rose in Kendall’s neck like mercury on a hot day. He was lonely and horny. He hadn’t been laid in over three years, ever since Shirley’s final turn for the worse.
They entered the living room. At least fifteen people stood or sat in febrile conversation. Nate looked around like a practiced scout. Planted a finger in Kendall’s chest. “Wait here. Be cool.”
Kendall removed his sunglasses from his jacket pocket and put them on. Cool. Nate crossed the room to where two bright young things talked with three guys, at least two of which were old enough to be their fathers. Nate expertly cut one out of the pack and spoke to her confidentially. She looked across the room at Kendall.
Nate went one way. The girl came across the room, smiling, holding a champagne glass. “Hi,” she said. “My name’s Jennifer. Nate says you’re new in town.”
She was short and stacked with perfect anime features, auburn hair cut in a pageboy.
“Kendall Coffin. Just moved out here from Omaha.”
“The only thing I know about Omaha is steaks.”
“Well the only thing I know about LA is what I see in the movies.”
Jennifer edged up. She wore a maddening perfume named after an actress. “Need a guide? I’m actually from LA.”
“Hey, that would be swell,” Kendall said.
“Want to do a line?” For the first time, Kendall noticed the slick under her nose. No wonder she was so perky.
“Ah, no thanks.”
She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the hall. “Well keep me company while I do a bump.”
Kendall let her drag him down the wide corridor lined with framed movie posters; Polis’ productions plus the classics: Casablanca, Gone with the Wind, The Maltese Falcon. She opened a bedroom door. A man sat on the bed with his trousers around his knees as a woman knelt between them.
“Whoops!” Jennifer exclaimed, backing out of the room.
The next room was likewise occupied. They heard snorking sounds from the hall bathroom. Desmond Krout peered out with white-rimmed nostrils, winked at Kendall, and closed the door. They settled on a half bath off the recreation room where Nate displayed his voluminous civic awards and industry trophies. Jennifer pulled him into the bathroom and locked the door. She removed an amber vial from her purse, shook the white powder out on a hand mirror and wrangled it with a credit card.
Kendall felt a visceral shudder. The long, thudding empty hours of sleeplessness by far outweighed the momentary high. Jennifer snorted through a sterling silver straw. She looked at him with manga eyes.
“You sure?”
“I’ll pass.”
She put her things away, dabbed beneath her nose with a wet tissue, examined herself in the mirror, touched up her lipstick, and led the way back to the living room. They paused at the entrance to survey the room.
“Oh!” Jennifer exclaimed. “There’s Jeremy DeKooning. I have to talk to him. Listen. I’d really love to show you the sights. Let me give you my phone number.”
She took a sticky pad and a pen from her cunning little purse, wrote her number on Kendall’s shoulder, and handed it to him. “Call me.”
“I will,” he said to her back.