How did they banter, Bernie and his new girl, when in bed? Something like this:
“That was lovely. Thank you.”
“You’re a very strong girl.”
“You’re a very strong man.”
“Are you Polish somewhere in there?”
“In where?”
“In there. Somewhere.”
“I am not. No, no, I don’t think so, no.”
“You look a little that way. Jesus H, I schvitz with you. Lemme get a towel. I’m schvitzing like I got stuck.”
“A big patch of hair.”
“I’m the stuck-er and you’re the stuck-ee.”
“Did you know you have a big patch of hair on your back?”
“I’m the Cabbage Patch Kid.”
“Right there, Bern. It’s very funny and sweet.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Oh? Who told you? I don’t like that, Bern.”
“It’s from the skin graft.”
“Mister Liar. You didn’t have any skin graft. Bullshitter. And who told you you had a sweet funny patch?”
“‘Cause I’m part Apache. Didn’t you know I was part Apache?” “Don’t make me dislike you.”
Out at the beach, Bernie felt the years drop off. He kept his own room (“for propriety,” Edie said) but didn’t think that would be for long. It wasn’t like they weren’t of age, for Jesus H. Soon they would shack up properly — for all he knew, next week they’d be honeymooners. The more things change, the more things change, just like they say. He’d never balled a schizophrenic before. He kept waiting for her to tell him Janet Reno was sending radio signals to her tits, but it never happened. Never even had the decency to crap in her panty hose. The only evidence of malady was a few fat bottles of pills in the medicine cabinet and the occasional puzzling affect. He’d lived with far worse.
Edie wasn’t beautiful but it didn’t embarrass him to be with her, either. He was no Larry King, he laughed to himself, and that said a lot right there. They didn’t socialize too much, anyway, confined for the most part to the paralytic duchy of fallen Big Star daughter. Until he found Edie, the producer hadn’t realized how tired he was. He was through hunting and gathering. What had it ever gotten him? Edie had money and twisted Tinseltown tenure — if this was the end of the line, he’d rise to the challenge. They would marry and attend galas, photographed for glossy Westside society pages, at table with Roddy McDowall, Sybil Brand, the Robert Stacks, and Mr. Blackwell. May we present…Bernard and Edie Gershon-Ribkin.
He stepped from the bright, claustrophobic elevator and stood in the hall, unable to move.
Someone sat by his door. It was sinister because the bulb above had been unscrewed.
“May…may I help you?”
As Bernie edged toward him, the man gripped knees to chest and began to sing. “Papa, can you see me?”
“Donny?”
“Papa, can you hear me?”—High camp, from the lower depths.
“What’s the matter with you?”
His son looked wild-eyed and spent — as if, lashed to the prow, he’d survived an epic storm only to become transcendently unhinged.
“Donny, what happened—”
Was he drunk? The agent held out some smallish books, strung together by a schoolboy’s cord, and laid the leathery bouquet at his father’s door, smug as a toastmaster. “Returned from whenth they came,” he said, lisping. Or some such nonsense. Then Donny drew forward and Bernie met the hair-raising eye. His progeny stank — the interregnum smell of a soul dethroned and demonized. Bernie shook, though staring at this boy, his own, he felt nothing; as in a morbid children’s story, he was man become a tree, bosky fingers avulsed and outspread, evicted legs a quivering snarl of loamy, snaky roots. As Donny swept past, the old man felt the waft of kingly cape, the regicidal blow.
The agent entered the lift and Bernie waited for the doors to close. (If only they could be sealed forever, the box thrown into space like a tomb.) He picked up the strap, reindeer of books attached, and went to his room. There he remained for a number of days, oblivious to even his gigantine lover, who fussed over his general health and prayed for his restoration to the world.
Zev Turtletaub
Zev and Phylliss Wolfe went to see Donny at the Westwood Hospital. That’s where she’d been for her breakdown. Phylliss hugged the nurses and the inevitable “old home week” comment was made. Zev joked that it was more a “busman’s holiday” for him.
Donny was drugged and uncommunicative. Phylliss’s Joan Rivers routine and Zev’s dealmaker gossip fell flat. When the agent became accustomed to their presence, he made a few shy, touching efforts at normalcy. They talked about buying art, then Donny resurrected an old piece of business about All Mimsy—something handled weeks before. Phylliss prattled about the beloved canine getting the power table at Mortons and the agent loosened up. It was smooth sailing until Donny said he possessed the name of the man who was the architect of the race war that would bring down ICM, leaving the city in shambles. “Dresden will look like a brushfire.” He took a crumpled get-well card from his pocket and unfolded it. On the cover was a “Far Side” style drawing of a priest, saying, “I am here to administer your ‘last rights.’” Inside was a list: the right to remain in bed, the right to moan and complain, the right to get well. “So get well, all right?” A small window shade of paper was pasted on the blank side, opposite. Underneath was a handwritten inscription: “You so crazy!” Zev lifted the flap, uncovering a photo of Donny’s mother clipped from a society magazine. There was a crudely drawn devil, its red-pencil cock invading Serena’s mouth. The card was unsigned.
“What was that all about?” asked Phylliss as they drove to the studio.
“I’m not sure.”
“Did you see that? Oh my God, who would have sent it?”
“Probably Rubidoux. Though it’s hard to believe he’d be that vindictive.”
“Ruby who?”
“Pierre Rubidoux. He used to work at ICM, above Donny. I think he represented Oberon for a while.”
“Where is he now?”
“Showtime. Does very well.”
“What happened?”
“Donny’s Mozart and Rubidoux is Salieri. They grew up together, went to school at El Rodeo. Donny was the popular one. The girls were always after him, loved by all the teachers — you know Donny. Pierre was a rich kid, a techie. A fine mind, but people weren’t drawn to him. They had this life-long entanglement. You know, Donny came to ICM later. Of course, Rubidoux had to leave when his old nemesis became the superstar — El Rodeo all over again. Donny isn’t blameless; it takes two to tango. He told me the whole story once and the details, the dovetailing, are exceedingly weird. It’s an SM folie à deux, a bad Night Gallery.”