And a woman whisper, “I don’t give a damn! He does what he wants. Why can’t I?”
Mitch froze, drawing his breath in.
“You’re insane!” the man whispered, groaning softly. “We can’t just…”
“I want you,” she gasped. “Hurry! Give it to me now.”
Mitch could not recognize them by their furtive whispers. Butthere was no mistaking what he heard next-the quick, heavy breathing, the slapping of bare flesh against bare flesh, the steady, rhythmic creaking of the wooden floorboards. The two of them were having it off in there together like a pair of sex-starved high school kids.
And then there was silence.
Mitch immediately tiptoed to the back of his stall and climbed up onto the built-in bench. From this vantage point he’d be able to see over his cropped stall door when they headed back out to the veranda. He was being a snoop and he knew it. But there was no way he was not going to find out who these lovers were.
A few moments later he heard their stall door swing open on rusty hinges. And footsteps, leather sandals clacking against the decking. Martine Crockett walked past, calmly straightening herself. She’d changed into a polo shirt and shorts, and she was striding a bit unsteadily, but she looked as cool, collected, and fresh as she always did.
Mitch waited, breathless with anticipation. After a moment a man emerged, looking flushed and shamefaced.
It wasn’t Will Durslag.
It was Jeff. Martine’s lover was Jeff Wachtell.
Ab-so-tootly.
The party was still going strong at ten o’clock when Mitch decided to say good night.
A dense fog had settled in, signaling that the rain wasn’t far off. His jaw ached and his head was spinning. All he wanted to do was go home, take three Advils, and crawl right under his bed. He could not look at either Jeff or Martine throughout dinner. And yet he was also unable to stop picturing the two of them together, groping each other’s naked, tumid flesh in that changing stall. Nor could he turn off the quiz show that was broadcasting nonstop inside of his mind.
Question: Could this GET any weirder?
Answer: Please, God, no.
Mitch felt so whipped by the time he’d steered his way across thefog-shrouded causeway for home that he didn’t even bother to turn on the living room lights. Just made straight for the kitchen, where he replenished the cats’ kibble bowl, fished an ice pack out of the freezer, and swallowed his Advils, hearing the mournful call of the foghorn on the Old Saybrook Lighthouse across the river. He was halfway up the steep, narrow stairs to his sleeping loft when something undeniable and truly frightening suddenly occurred to him.
He was not alone in his house.
Noises. He distinctly heard noises. The clinking of a glass. A cough.
His heart racing, Mitch flicked on a light and discovered Tito Molina sitting there in his one good chair, drinking up his scotch. Clemmie dozed contentedly in the actor’s lap.
“Geez, Tito, scare people much?” he demanded.
“I like sitting in the dark,” Tito answered, his blue eyes blazing at Mitch defiantly.
Mitch stood there in guarded silence, wondering what the combustible young star wanted. And whether he should be afraid for his life. Should he try to call Des? Should he arm himself? What with, the fireplace poker? He ended up just standing there, his eyes falling on Clemmie. “She hasn’t sat in my lap all summer.”
“Animals take to me. I’m one of them.” Tito took a gulp of Mitch’s scotch, the glass trembling so violently in his hand that it clinked off of his teeth. The man was wrapped beyond tight.
Clemmie awoke with a yawn, jumped out of Tito’s lap, and wandered off toward the kitchen. Mitch watched her go, jealous in spite of himself.
“That guitar of yours is a piss,” Tito said, his eyes falling on Mitch’s Stratocaster. “Play me something.”
“Kind of tired right now, Tito. What is it you want?”
“To talk.”
“Okay, sure.” Mitch sat on the edge of his loveseat, keeping the coffee table between them. He’d made that himself by bolting a discarded wooden storm window onto a leaky old rowboat. He wasvery proud of his coffee table. “But how did you get here?” he asked, snugging the ice pack against his jaw.
“What, you think because I’m Chicano I don’t know how to use a damned phone book?”
“Of course not. I didn’t see a car parked at the gate, that’s all.”
“I swam out. My ride’s back at the town beach.”
Tito’s hair was indeed wet, Mitch now noticed, as were the yellow nylon shorts that he was wearing. The orange-and-blue T-shirt he was wearing was dry. It was one of Mitch’s T-shirts. In fact, it was Mitch’s treasured and exceedingly threadbare New York Mets 1986 World Series T-shirt. He’d owned that shirt since he was in high school. And Tito had gone and helped himself right to it.
“That wasn’t very smart of you,” Mitch told him. “People have drowned trying to swim out here-the river currents can be treacherous. That’s how the island got its name. Back before they built the causeway they used a little ferry boat, and it capsized and a Peck daughter washed out to sea.” Mitch stared at the young actor, wondering what it would be like to be so handsome. Everyone in the world wanted to look like Tito Molina-and yet his unparalleled good looks hadn’t brought him anything even remotely close to happiness. “It would have been better if you’d buzzed me. I’d have raised the gate for you.”
“How could you do that, man? You weren’t here.”
“I was at the beach club. I thought you’d be there, too. I thought we’d have a chance to talk then.”
Tito didn’t respond. Just poured himself some more of Mitch’s scotch, his hand wavering unsteadily.
Mitch abruptly rose and marched into the kitchen for his emergency stash-the family-sized squeeze bottle of Hershey’s chocolate syrup that he kept hidden under the sink behind the laundry detergent and furniture polish, away from Des’s disapproving eyes.
“What are you doing in there?” Tito called to him.
Mitch returned with the syrup and sat. “Just getting comfortable,” he replied, squirting a generous shot of it onto his tongue.
“You have really disgusting personal habits, man,” Tito observed, curling his lip.
“Hey, you pick your remedy, I’ll pick mine.”
“Fair enough,” the actor conceded. “I hear you’re hooked up with the trooper lady.”
“So what?”
“So nothing. I’m envious, that’s all.”
“You’re married to the sexiest woman in America and you envy me?”
“Totally. Yours is the real deal. The way that she took charge of our situation today. Charged right in, no fear…” Tito gazed out the window, his knee jiggling nervously. “That was so cool.”
“Esme said you’d be at the beach club tonight.”
“She shouldn’t have. I told her I wouldn’t go.” He drank some more scotch, his finely sculpted features tightening. “She’s my Miss America, know what I’m saying? All she needs is the damned crown and that… what’s that thing they wear across their boobies, says where they come from?”
“A sash?”
Tito nodded. “Right. But she doesn’t listen to me when I tell her things. I’d never go near a place like that. It’s filled with dead men walking. I start hanging at their damned beach club with them then I’m not me anymore, know what I’m saying?”
“Yes, I think I do.”
“Okay, what did you mean by that?” Tito demanded suddenly.
Mitch shook his head at him, perplexed. The man was an absolute master at keeping people off-balance. “By what?”
“This afternoon, you said I was better than this. What did you mean?”
“It doesn’t exactly require a translation.”
Tito gazed at him searchingly. “I’m just a poor dumb beaner, jack. I need one, okay?”
Tito Molina sure needed something. He seemed to be consumed by inner disquiet. Mitch just didn’t know what it was he needed, or why he seemed to feel he needed it from him.
Mitch settled back on the loveseat with his syrup bottle, listening to the foghorn. “I was there on opening night when you were in Salesman. I saw it happen, Tito. I saw you blow Malkovich right off of that stage. You’re the real deal. You have the talent and looks and pure unadulterated star quality to do whatever you want. They can’t stop you. And that’s rare. One, maybe two actors in a generation have what you’ve got. Newman had it. Redford had it. Right now, there’s you and there’s only you. For me, it’s as if you’re holding a fortune right in the palm of your hand and instead of investing it wisely you’re pissing it away on crap like Dark Star, and I wish like hell you wouldn’t.”