He left the phone on in case Elsa called back but she did not. Oh well. If Greg was at either of his two houses, Jake had the numbers in his book. And if he were somewhere other than that, well ... what could he do?
He spent the rest of the ride home wondering exactly what the actor had gotten himself into this time and hoping it was something that would not detract too much from his plans for the evening.
Tony pulled the limo to the curb fifteen minutes later after fighting his way through the late afternoon traffic. Jake thanked him for the ride and tipped him fifty dollars. He then carried his bag up the walkway, had to fish in it for a few minutes to retrieve his keys, and unlocked the door. The alarm was beeping away as he entered the foyer. He quickly punched in the code and then closed and locked the door behind him.
He left his bag by the door, having no intention of unpacking it. He would give it to Elsa tomorrow when he got home and she would launder everything in it and put it away. He made his way to the kitchen and opened the freezer. He dug through the stack of Tupperware, pondering his choices and finally settling on the roasted turkey breast with mashed potatoes, gravy, and corn. He released the lid to allow ventilation and then popped it in the microwave, setting the timer for six minutes. After pressing the start button, he went to the bar, where there was both alcohol and a telephone. He fixed himself yet another rum and coke and then opened his phone book, flipping to the C’s where the entry for Celia and Greg was written. There were the numbers for their Los Angeles house, their Palm Springs house, and Celia’s cell phone.
He took a sip of his drink and then picked up the phone from its charging base. He dialed the number for the LA house first. It rang two times and was picked up. Jake was expecting either a voicemail system or the stiff voice of one of the servants, but instead it was Greg himself.
“Oldfellow residence,” his voice said.
“Hey, Greg. Jake. Elsa said you were trying to get hold of me.”
“Jake!” he said brightly. “Thank you for returning my call. I understand you’re here in Los Angeles?”
“I am,” Jake confirmed. “Just flew in a few hours ago. I’m at the Granada Hills pad now.”
“That’s good,” Greg said. “And I understand you won’t be flying back to your primary residence tonight.”
“I am not,” Jake said. “The FAA would not approve of such a trip.”
“Ahhh, I see,” he said. “So ... how was the tour?”
“It was cool,” Jake said. “Tiring, but cool. Elsa said you had something of importance you wanted to talk about?”
“Oh ... yes ... right,” Greg said slowly. “Are you planning to fly home tomorrow?”
“Yes, I am,” Jake confirmed. “I’m going to sleep the night away and catch up on what I’ve lost of late and then probably head for the airport around eleven or so. Why do you ask?”
“Uh ... well ... I was just wondering ... if it’s not too much of an imposition ... uh ... if maybe I could go with you?”
Jake raised his eyebrows a bit. This conversation was strange, Greg’s request even stranger. This did not sound like the Greg Oldfellow that Jake had always known. “Uh ... you want to go to Oceano with me?” he asked carefully.
“If it’s not too much of an imposition,” Greg said.
“It’s not an imposition at all,” Jake said, “but ... uh ... why do you want to do that?”
“Oh ... you know,” he said. “Sometimes it’s good to get away from the city for a bit, have a change of scenery and all.”
“Isn’t that why you have a house in Palm Springs?” Jake asked.
“It is,” Greg agreed, “but I really enjoy the house you built on the ocean. It has a soothing charm to it. I’d really like to have a similar place of my own one of these days—a bit larger of course.”
“Of course,” Jake said slowly. He took a drink of his drink. “Greg?”
“Yes?”
“What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“You asking to stay at my house with me is kind of strange. And, while you’re welcome to do so—don’t let me give you the impression that you’re not—I can’t help but think that there’s more to this than you just wanting to have some time on the beach.”
Jake heard the actor sigh on the other end of the connection. “Well ... as a matter of fact ... I received some rather distressing news yesterday.”
“What kind of news?”
“That kind of news one does not speak of on the phone. I would like to discuss the matter with you—you are perhaps the only I one I can talk to about this—but not over the phone.”
A suspicion popped up in Jake’s mind. The only other time Greg had wanted to fly in Jake’s plane somewhere was when... “You didn’t fuck Mindy Snow again, did you?” he asked.
“What? No, of course not,” Greg said.
“You didn’t get a blowjob from her, or tap her ass, or eat her pussy out, or tit-fuck her?”
“No,” he insisted. “I have had no sexual contact with Mindy Snow since the premier trip.”
“Okay,” Jake said, believing him—for the most part anyway. But he still could not help but suspect that this had something to do with Mindy. “Why don’t you meet me at Whiteman Airport at 11:30 tomorrow. Is that doable?”
“I will be there,” Greg promised. “Thank you. I appreciate this.”
“No problem,” Jake said. “And ... well ... just so I can let Elsa know, how long do you plan to stay?”
“Just a day or two,” Greg said. “That’s all I will be able to.”
“Fair enough,” Jake said. “See you tomorrow then.”
“Eleven-thirty sharp,” Greg said.
They hung up. Jake ate his dinner and drank his drink, but he was no longer in the mood for internet porn or a cigar.
He went to bed just before 6:00 PM and slept soundly until 4:30 AM, at which point he got up to empty his bladder and drink some water. He then went back to bed and slept for another four hours.
Greg made only small talk on the flight from Whiteman to Oceano and Jake did not push him. He could tell that whatever was wrong was eating the man alive. He looked terrible, with bags under his eyes, his complexion pale and sallow, and he kept chewing his fingernails, something that Jake had never seen him do before.
Jake landed the Chancellor at 12:33 PM. By 1:00, they were at the house. Elsa had prepared them turkey and bacon sandwiches for lunch, and they ate them at the dining room table while drinking bottles of Lighthouse Ale that Jake had brought from Oregon the last time he was there.
After Elsa took the dishes away Greg suggested that maybe they could go outside and have some scotch and cigars.
“Yeah, sure,” Jake said, wondering if this was where the actor was finally going to get to the reason he was here. “Sounds like a plan.”
“And I brought my swimming trunks,” he said. “How about we get into the hot tub?”
“Uh ... no, we can’t do that,” Jake said.
“Why not?” Greg asked. “Is it broken?”
“It is not,” Jake told him, “but heterosexual guys do not get into a hot tub together if there are no women present.”
“They don’t?” Greg asked, surprised.
“They don’t,” Jake confirmed. “It’s part of the Rules of Being a Dude.”
“Oh,” Greg said. “I did not know that.”
“It’s right up there with you never ride on the back of another dude’s motorcycle, you never touch the other dude during a two male/one female threesome, and you never stand next to another dude at a urinal if there is a further away urinal or a stall available.”
“Ahhh,” Greg said. “I knew about the urinal one. I’m afraid I have never encountered the motorcycle or the threesome situation before.”
“You should probably write all this down at some point,” Jake suggested.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Greg said.
They got their cigars and their glasses and a bottle of Jake’s twenty-five-year-old single malt scotch. They also got their sweaters, since currently the temperature was sixty degrees, overcast, and with a chilly onshore breeze blowing. They set up shop on the deck table, each pouring a healthy amount of the amber liquid, keeping it neat. They sparked up their cigars and puffed on them. And they mostly stared out at the ocean and spoke little until the first glasses of scotch were consumed.