“Hey there, Kitchener!” said Burke, with an oily smile. (As any Kit-watcher knew, the star had been whimsically named after the first Earl Kitchener of Khartoum.) He extended a hand, and Kit reluctantly shook it, squinting in the sun so as not to fully take the man in.
“Hey.”
“I was on my way to Santa Barbara,” Burke said unconvincingly. “Saw all the trucks and asked about the commotion. Cop said it was a Kit Lightfoot movie. ‘Now wait a minute, that’s my son!’ ”
“Yeah, right,” said Kit, sucking in snot and tapping a cigarette against the bottom of his boot. “I’ll have that guy fired.”
Burke laughed it off. Kit wasn’t sure why the man bothered to lie anymore.
“Saw you on Leno,” he said.
“Uh huh.”
“I didn’t know you did all that fund-raising.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t.”
His father shone with good health and good cheer. He was a handsome, lanky New Englander; Kit’s mom was an American beauty with a touch of Cree. It was a right-on gene pool.
“Anyhow, thanks for seeing me,” said Burke. “I know it was unannounced.”
“That’s your thing, right? ‘Unannounced.’”
“Your mother was rather spontaneous herself,” he said folksily.
“Don’t drag her into it.”
“All right.” Burke knew when to acquiesce.
“Look,” said Kit, cynically. “I don’t know what you think we got goin. Or what you think we’re gonna get goin—”
“I don’t have an agenda, Kitchener, other than seeing my son. Fathers tend to want to do that.”
“Oh really? Well, this father”—he jabbed a finger toward Burke—“didn’t tend to want to. Didn’t tend to want to do shit until I started making bread.”
“That isn’t true,” said Burke, stung.
“Why don’t you tell me what husbands tend to want to do? Now that I know all about dads.”
“I was there for your mother—”
“Right!” Kit exclaimed, with a nearly out-of-control donkey laugh.
“—as much as she wanted me to be. And you know that. But she had you. R. J. didn’t want to see me when she was sick. She had you and that was enough.”
They listened to the waves. Crackle of a walkie.
“Look, son… I won’t take any more of your time. But while I’m here, I wanted to tell you I came across some of her things, from when we were in college. Love letters — beautiful. Thought you could drop by the house and see ‘em this weekend. If you’d like.”
Kit blew a ring of smoke. “Call Xanthe,” he said. “She’ll give you a FedEx number and an address.”
“I’d rather not send that precious material through the mail,” said Burke, shrewdly playing out his hand. “I’ll wait till you’re in the neighborhood.”
“You might have to wait a long time,” said Kit, standing. “And it’s probably not a good idea to drop by without calling. In fact, it’s probably not a good idea to drop by at all.”
“You’re the boss.” His father gathered up an old leather satchel. “One more thing — may I trouble you? Grant School’s having a benefit. Remember Grant? They had some pretty severe water damage to the auditorium. That’s where you did The Music Man. ‘Trouble in River City! With a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for pool!’” He pulled a stack of headshots out — Kit at the beginning of his career. He drew a fancy Waterman from his coat. “I told them I’d help. If you can sign some eight-by-tens, they’ll be the hit of the auction.”
Pool Party
THE REALITY SHOW relocated from Tasmania to the Canary Islands. Sadge kept Becca on a tight leash until he left. He wouldn’t even let her answer the phone. A guy kept calling at all hours, asking for her. It gave Sadge the creeps. Whenever he picked up, the voice would say, “Is this fat Jack Black and the Heart Attacks? Is this Tenacious D?” Becca had given Rusty her cell phone but didn’t know how he got the home number. She didn’t think Elaine would have given it to him. He denied making the calls.
• • •
SHE ASKED WHY he called himself Rusty and he said because that was his name. Then he said it was Elaine’s idea. Anyway, he liked using his counterpart’s “appellation.” There was a purity in it, he said. Like the servants in that movie Gosford Park who took the names of their masters.
• • •
SADGE WAS IN the bathroom when Becca’s phone vibrated — it said UNKNOWN in the little luminous window. It was Rusty. He asked if she wanted to go to a party Grady Dunsmore and his wife were having. He was out of the hospital and celebrating in his new house. Rusty said he’d pick her up at Ürth Caffé at nine. She impulsively called Annie and asked her to come. Becca told Sadge that Annie was having monster period cramps and she was going to bring her Vicodin and stay for Six Feet Under.
Rusty wasn’t thrilled that Becca had invited her friend along. When he called her the chaperone, Annie got feisty with him, which he seemed to like. Becca was quiet as he drove, subdued, entranced, in her mind already his girlfriend. Annie hassled him about beating on that guy in Playa del Rey. Rusty enjoyed the razzing. Becca could tell that Annie thought he had his redeeming qualities.
They drove up Laurel Canyon to Mulholland. Annie asked about his friend’s house. Rusty said it had been in escrow for six months and finally closed, and that Nicholson and Brando apparently lived right across the street. Annie asked about Grady’s injury. Rusty said he’d been shot by the police a few years back. The girls left it at that.
A valet took their car. Decorated golf carts ferried guests to the house, but the trio chose to walk through the gate and descend the long, steep drive. The fractured tiara of a mansion lay below. There were crowds of people, and Becca gradually made out a South Seas theme. Fiery tiki torches surrounded the pool. Women in grass skirts served drinks and canapés.
They saw Grady beaming at them beyond the sliding window of the living room. Music boomed from inside and liquor sloshed from his glass as he limped out to give his old bud a modified bear hug.
“You did it,” said Rusty. “It’s a fucking palace.”
“Yes, we did it, we fucking did! Absolutely. But all this?” He put an arm around Rusty’s shoulder then took in the pool, the revelers, and the evening air itself before glancing Becca and Annie’s way. “Everything you see? A tribute to Questra. Wish she could be here to see it.”
“She is here. She’s here.” Rusty thumped Grady’s chest at the heart. “Here, there, and everywhere.”
His maudlin friend let it sink in. “Thank you. Thank you for being here and thank you for fucking saying the beautiful shit that only you can say.” Grady turned to Becca. “An awesome cat. He’s crazy — and fuckin awesome. But you probably already know that.”
“You remember Becca,” said Rusty.
“Hey now,” said Grady. “I’m not gonna forget Becca. Ain’t nobody gonna forget Becca. Welcome. Welcome to my righteous home.”
“This is my friend Annie,” she said.
“Hi,” said Annie.
“Hey, Annie Fannie.” Suddenly energized, Grady looked all around him again. “Place is a trip, ain’t it? We got Hefner beat.”
“It’s incredible,” said Annie, in earnest. Grady’s hoarseness and cock-eyed brio reminded her of a younger Nick Nolte.
“Three acres! That’s one more than Marlon. But the house is a pile — it’s a teardown. Used to belong to Russ Meyer. Know who Russ Meyer was? Ol’ Russ was seriously into the female anatomy, with special emphasis on the breast. The large breast. Man was my hero. Did you see the pool yet? Check it out. There’s an observation room down below. Super sixties! Ol’ Russ used to like to sit and watch titties float by. I don’t even think they had implants back then — no silicone, anyway. No Viagra either. Fuckin Stone Age.”