He sucked and squealed and clapped his hands together while doing a little dance. Then he fell to his knees before the table like a spent soul singer and sucked up two pencil-thick lines.
Cassandra held the diamond ring up to Becca’s eyes. “Ain’t it pretty? That’s my little girl. Didn’t they do her beautiful?”
“Got your boy on Murder One!” said Grady, gleefully. “Whacked some fucker in the horsey set, in Virginia. Ain’t that your hometown? Didn’t he never say nothin to you about that?”
“Why would he, Grady?” said Cassandra, drowsily. “He and some… fancy lady—” She nodded out, then came to. “Gettin it on at some ritzy equestrian center… now why would he want to—”
“Ritzy whuh?” he said, furrowing his brow. “Some ritzy bar-mitzy whuh?”
“—killed the husband? Or whatever? Now why would he mention that to our sweet little Becca? Why would he want her to even know anything about that? Huh, Grady?”
“Shit,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “How the fuck would I know? Could be nightie-night talk. You and me used to nightie-night talk shit, didn’t we? Never know what goes on behind closed doors.”
Cassandra drunkenly warbled, “When you get behind closed doors, and you let your hair hang low…”
“Who knows what these two look-alikes here shared?” said Grady the horn-dog. “I’ll tell you who — the shadow do!”
“And you make me feel like ah’m a man! No one knows what goes on behind closed doors—“Cassandra shrieked, collapsing in rheumy laughter.
“Man,” said Grady, regarding her with disdain. “You like that fat crazy bitch on The Sopranos. You jus’ like Tony Soprano’s sister.” Jake cried from his crib. Grady cast a lecherous eye on Becca. “Lotta shit goes on behind closed doors… if you know what I mean.”
He touched her thigh and she pulled away. She was sad and stoned and had no energy to leave. Outside the window, a ghostly pool man drew a long pole through the water.
“Tell you one thing,” said Grady, lighting up. “Tell you one thing, for sure—that boy gonna need to get lawyered up. Mr. Russell Crowe Junior’s gonna need hisself some legal funds.”
“And we ain’t gonna give him shit.”
“Oh yes we are.”
“Oh no we ain’t.”
“Oh yes we are. And I’ll tell you why.”
“OK, baby. You tell me why.”
“I’ll tell you why and you’re gonna like it.”
“Right — I’m gonna love it. I’m gonna love it like I love your crusty ol’ butthole.”
“You gonna love that too when I’m through. Gonna love it when I’m prairie doggin. Gonna wanna pitch a tent in there. You gonna wanna up my salary too.”
“I’ll up it. Love to. Up it till it hurts.”
“We gonna buy that screenplay he wrote.”
“We ain’t gonna buy shit.”
“I got five words for you: To Kill a Unicorn.”
“That’s four, dickwad.”
“Now what’d Rusty say when I axe him what that screenplay was about? What’d he say, Cass?” She thought about it as she went on the nod. “What’d he say? Yeah, that’s right — now she finally cain’t say nothin — now she won’t—cause she knows what he said. The man said it was a murder mystery. Right? OK? And where did he say it took place? At the track! Or some kinda horsey farm. ‘Member, Cass?”
“That’s right,” said the wife, eyes sealed. The cigarette was about to burn the tip of her finger. “That’s right.” He knew that she knew where he was going. “I’ll give you that.”
“Yeah well, you gonna give me more than that, Mamasita. While my guitar gently fuckin weeps. I wouldn’t be surprised if Russell Crowe Junior laid the whole motherfuckin crime out in that scriptuh his. OK?”
“OK,” said Cassandra. When you’re right, you’re right. “OK, Columbo?”
“I ain’t shittin, Sherlock. And I mean everything that fucking happened, all right? OK? All right? QuestraWorld gonna own that shit — the whole fuckin deal. All right?”
“I see what you’re saying,” she said.
“I knew that you would. Took me to think of it, though, didn’t it?”
“You just might get that raise, babylove.”
“Better believe I’m gonna get that raise, Mommy!” he said, then whooped. “You gonna suckle my grody anus too. Taste like tutti-frutti. Gon’ give in to all my hostage demands! Fifty thousand in change, for a night at Hustler’s! In beautiful downtown Gardena!”
“We ain’t closed no deal with Rusty yet.”
“When we close. That’s fair. That’s fair — I’m a fair man. Though I do think you should give me ten up front, for a finder’s fee. For puttin the fuckin pieces together. But I’m fair and I got a mind like a motherfucking iron trap and don’t you or anybody forget it! That’s why I got all my millions. Trick is, to get the screenplay off him before it becomes evidentiary.”
“Fore somebody else buys it.”
“That’s right. That’s right. Now you got it. I don’t think he gonna be in a hurry to tell the police about it. But when HBO find out, HBO gonna want it.”
“Naw,” said Cassandra, shaking her head. Her lids were heavy, like a groggy seer’s. “We wan’ somebody else. HBO is for the TV show. Don’t want to dip in that well too many times. We want this for a DreamWorks.”
“That’s why you’re QuestraWorld CEO,” said Grady respectfully.
“Could be for a Soderbergh,” said Cassandra.
“Maybe. Hell, George Clooney love to get his hands on this!”
“Too old to play Rusty.”
“Then he could just direct or exec produce. They gonna be linin up for this motherfucker! So get your checkbook ready, girl! Get your yayas out!” He clapped his hands, rubbing them together as if to make a fire. “Whoo-eee! We got ourselves a major project acquisition.” He did a war dance, then turned to Becca. “You gonna help, ain’t you? Help persuade him? Make you an E.P. for that. Wanna exec? We can swing that, cain’t we, Mama Cass? Cain’t we swing exec prod for our girl here?”
“Associate,” said Cassandra.
“She gonna be an invaluable part of the package — she was the girlfriend and she’s hot and she’s a look-alike! Look-alikes ‘bout to be hot as motherfuckers! And shit—bitch works for Viv Wembley! I didn’t even think of that shit! It all ties in!” He coughed a dewy fogbank of smoke. “Our little girl works for the wicked witch former fiancée! The bi-atch who dumped Lightfoot — in sickness and in health my left nut. Bi-atch left his twappy rear end standing at the altar!”
“Waitin around for that slut with a buncha bald old Buddhists with hard-ons,” said Cassandra, stirring from a nod.
“It’s a Shakespearean fucking tragedy, man! I love it! I love it!”
“Associate producer,” said Cassandra, from the viraginous depths.