Marj cracked hers open, tucking the wish into her purse.
XLIX.Joan
CHESTER made a lunch date with his sister at a place Laxmi recommended in Venice, called Axe. It turned out that Joan was a regular, because it was over on Abbott Kinney, near ARK.
They hadn’t seen each other since their stepfather’s funeral. When Chess called to say he wanted to “talk about something,” her antennae went up. He said on the phone he had visited Mom, and that clinched it — Big Brother needed a 2nd helping. She didn’t ask if Marj had already tithed. She didn’t want to know.
He was thin and drawn, and walked with a hobble that struck her as slightly theatrical. Oh boy. I’m gonna get hit up for a bundle. He gave the place a once-over and said he hoped the menu wasn’t “minimalist.” (A lame dig at Joan’s aesthetics.) She told him he’d been pronouncing it wrong. It was ah-shay, she said, not axe.
“Well, you look like you’ve been eating!” he said, with a smile. (In secret sibling language, that meant: 1) You’re rich and you’re lucky; 2) I’m poor and I’m fucked; 3) You’re a middleaged whore; 4) You’ve gained weight because you’re a rich, lucky, middleaged whore.) He launched into the ballad of how his old friend Maurie Levin set him up on a reality show and got him injured. She literally shook her head, bemused. Chester was always putting his foot in it. There was something endearingly pathetic about him: he was some kind of classic, dipped-in-shit, dyed-in-the-wool fuckup. Her brother went on to say he was suing the company that produced the show and that his supercharged lawyer, “Remar” (even the name made her chuckle), was “extremely optimistic” things would “settle out” before a court date was set. Might take a year, though, maybe 2. Joan had already done the math and decided to give him 5 grand; she ran the figures in her head when he 1st called. 5,000 and not a penny more. That was OK. She had enough in the bank right now and it’d actually been a few years since he’d asked. He had the pride thing going but that wouldn’t last forever.
The waiter took his time. It was that kind of place. Both staff and clientele seemed like smug California dreamers, New Age grifters. When the guy finally came, Chess asked for a Coke. He said they didn’t have Cokes, they didn’t have soda. Like Chess had asked for yak urine. (Which they probably did have.) Joan just smiled. She ordered tea and tofu. Her brother had a bowl of rice and chicken, and a jug of weirdass juice.
He made some cursory stabs at catching up. How are your projects, are you seeing anyone, bip bop boop. Even threw in a zinger about Mayne winning the Pritzker.
“Since when do you keep up on the life of Thom Mayne?”
“I do read, you know. My landlady gives me her New York Observers.”
“Well la-di-da.”
“And LA magazine.”
“That’s a restaurant guide, right?”
“I’m telling you, Joanie, I’ve been to so many doctors’ offices, I’m up on all the zines. I just sit in waiting rooms, reading. Mayne’s doing the Olympic Village in New York, right? Tough-looking fucker. Supposed to be kinda nasty, you know, nasty to his clients. I hate that shit. I wouldn’t last 2 seconds if I was rude to the people who hire me. Ever meet him? Doesn’t he look like that French guy? That actor? The guy from The Da Vinci Code…Reno! Jean Reno. Mayne gives a pretty good interview. Doesn’t he live around here? He did a ‘My Favorite Weekend’—the Times wants me to do one of those. Seriously. Anyway, I was reading this interview where Mayne said an architect’s career doesn’t really begin happening till he’s in his 50s. So your clock hasn’t officially started to tick.”
(In not-so-secret sibling language, that meant: 1) You haven’t made it in your field and probably never will; 2) You are likely to achieve career success only by consenting to be sodomized by an already established architect — and should maybe just shoot for Thom Mayne; 3) If you’re gonna “build” anything, it better be a kid, before you go barren.)
Joan was beginning to wonder why she had agreed to see him. She’d forgotten how gallingly passive-aggressive her brother could be. Maybe she wouldn’t give him the money afterall.
“You know,” said Chess. “I was thinking. I was wondering. About Dad.”
“Dad?”
She suddenly — wonder of wonders — realized he was stoned.
“Yeah. You know, Maurie told me he heard a story about Michael Bay — that director? He did Pearl Harbor and Armageddon. Maurie said that Michael Bay — and I don’t know if this is bullshit — Michael Bay found out his dad was John Frankenheimer, the guy who did the original Manchurian Candidate. He died last year or whenever. Supposedly he and Burt Lancaster were banging extras in their trailers during Seven Days in May. That was ’64 and Bay was born in ’65. Do the math. You know, I did some scouting for Path to War, this TV movie he did. Frankenheimer. He died on the table, I think, in the middle of surgery. They were operating on his spine — probably what’s going to wind up happening to me. I’ll kick, right on the table, with the bozo anesthesiologist snoring away. Do you have any idea how often that happens, Joan? I’ve really looked into this shit! They just kill you. End of story. You can be healthy as an ox and they accidentally kill you cause they had a fight with their girlfriend or they’re daydreaming about which satellite radio service to get or they’re pissed off because the guy at Cingular fucked up and deleted their BlackBerry addressbook. Anyway, I just thought the Michael Bay/Frankenheimer thing was weird. Maybe it’s one of those ‘urban movie myths.’ Like the gerbil. I don’t know if it’s true but it got me thinking about Dad. I mean, Bay and Frankenheimer are both action guys and they’re both alleged to be pricks. I mean, I don’t even know Michael Bay, and I really like his movies — not as much as I like the Scott brothers, but he’s fucking good—though I never heard anything great about him, personally. Not that that means anything. You always hear bad things about people then one day you work with them and they’re pussycats. So I don’t put all that much stock in gossip and shit. Still…I saw him over at the Sports Club LA and he seemed like a nice guy. I mean, he wasn’t going off on anybody. Very unassuming. Or maybe I saw Renny Harlin. No — it was definitely Bay. You know, come to think of it, Michael Bay kinda looks like Thom Mayne!”
“Oh Chess, come on,” she said, mildly exasperated.
“He does,” laughed Chess. “I swear! Not that making movies is a popularity contest. Most directors have prickly reputations. The good ones, anyway. But, Joanie, don’t you think that’s strange?”
“What are you saying, Chess? What’s strange.”
“Frankenheimer supposedly denied paternity to the bitter end — which would be cold, if it turned out to be true. Bay shoulda stole a cigarette or a coffee cup. They can extract DNA from that shit. Anyhow, it just made me wonder what the chances were that Dad was still in this city. Maybe even in the business. And he just doesn’t want to contact us.”
“Yeah, right. Maybe Dad’s George Lucas! You finally unraveled the secret, Chester! Our father is George Lucas! Or Frank Gehry! Maybe Dad’s Frank Gehry! No—” (time for her to get in a zinger of her own) “—he’s a location scout. That’s it! Dad’s the Location Scout King!”