Tito threw down another hit of scotch, shuddering. “Sometimes it’s like a trade-off. You’ve got to do that stuff so they’ll let you do what you really want.”
“I understand that,” Mitch said. “But what is it that you really want to do?”
“Man, I don’t know,” he replied, staring gloomily down into his glass.
“I don’t believe that. You know exactly what you want to do.”
Tito peered up at him suspiciously. “Okay, so maybe I do. What I want… I want to make a movie about my father. It would be, like, a way to understand where I come from, know what I’m saying? See, he was just this really angry, screwed-up juicehead and he died-”
“In a bar fight, I know.”
“I’d play him myself, see. And Esme would play my crazy mother. I’ve written the script. Most of it, anyway. And I want to direct it myself, too, which means I’d have to raise the money myself, which my agent totally hates. But that’s okay, because I don’t think I’ll be straight with myself until I do this. I need to do this.” He glanced at Mitch uncertainly. “You’re a smart guy. You know about things. Word up, what do you think?”
Mitch stared back at him for a moment. Now he knew why Tito Molina was here, what he wanted. Tito was an actor. He wanted Mitch to direct him. “I think you should do it.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely, because you’re passionate about it. You should always work on whatever you’re most passionate about. Otherwise you’re just another meat sack, wasting your time, wasting your life…” Mitch applied more syrup to his tongue. “Unless you can’t afford to do it, that is.”
“Hell yes, I can afford it. They gave me twenty mil for Dark Star. That’s my going rate now. I’m in the club, man. But, see, my agent wants me and Esme to do this romantic comedy together, Puppy Love.”
“I’ll probably be sorry I asked you this, but what’s it about?”
“I play a young veterinarian from the wrong side of the tracks,” Tito replied woodenly. “She’s a high-class breeder of champion basset hounds. We meet. We fall in love. We fall out of love. We-”
“Say no more. Please.” It sounded like a feel-good sapfest, the kind where exhibitors ought to post a sign at the box office reading Diabetics Enter at Own Risk. “Do you like the script?”
“No, I hate it. It’s just this bunch of cute, fake moments, strung together like beads. Totally Hollywood, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, I know exactly what you mean.”
“But it’s a go project. The studio’s behind it.”
“And Esme?”
“She’ll do it if I will. But I don’t know, man. I feel like…” Tito ran a hand over his face, distraught. “I feel like I don’t have any real say in what happens. Like I’m not an actual person, just a character in a movie that somebody else is creating. None of it’s real. I’m not real. Esme’s not real. Esme and me, Chrissie and me.. .”
“What about Chrissie and you?” Mitch asked, frowning.
“Nothing, man. Forget that. Would you read the pages I’ve written?” he asked Mitch nervously.
“I’d be honored,” replied Mitch, who found himself discovering the same thing about Tito that Dodge had. Mitch liked the guy. He didn’t expect to, but he did. There was genuine boyish innocence to him that came through in spite of that twitchy anger. “Mind you, this means I won’t be able to review it when it comes out. Hey, wait, is this all just an insidious ploy to disqualify me?”
“No way,” Tito insisted. “I’m not that clever, man. I swear it.”
“In that case, I’ll be happy to read your pages. Drop them by any time.”
Tito sat there staring out the window for a long moment. “I don’t know, it’s all just so…” He trailed off. Briefly, he seemed very far away. Then he shook himself and drained his scotch. “I’m in the middle of something bad. Something I got myself into. And I can’t get out of it.”
Mitch watched the actor curiously. Was he still talking about Puppy Love or had he moved on to something else? Mitch couldn’t tell. “You can get out of anything if you really want to. You’re in charge of your own life, Tito. You have the power.”
“What power, man? I don’t even know who I am.”
“Do you want to know?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“Trust me, that puts you way ahead of most people.”
Now Tito jumped to his feet, so suddenly that Mitch found himself flinching. It was an involuntary thing, and if the actor noticed it he didn’t let on. “Gotta go. Big thanks, man.”
“For what, Tito?”
“The T-shirt,” he replied, flashing a smile at him.
“I wouldn’t mind getting that back, if you think of it.”
“You can have it right now,” Tito said easily. “I’m all dried off.”
“No, go ahead and wear it home. It’s damp out. You might catch cold. Besides, it looks so much better on you.”
Tito went to the door and opened it, pausing there in the doorway. “Sorry about this afternoon.”
“It’s forgotten, as far I’m concerned. Can I give you a lift back to your car?”
“Naw, I’m cool. I’ll take that bridge thing back. The walk will do me good. Later, man.”
Mitch flicked on the porch light and watched Tito Molina melt soundlessly into the fog just like Sinatra did after he delivered the Arabian pony to the young lord in The List of Adrian Messenger, one of Mitch’s favorite thrillers in spite of George C. Scott’s awful English accent. Quirt was curled up on a tarp under the bay window, his eyes shining at Mitch. Mitch said good night to him, then flicked off the light and went back inside, breathing deeply in and out.
He hadn’t realized it, but he had been holding his breath practically the entire time since he’d walked in on Tito.
He crawled right into bed, Clemmie snuggling up against his chest for the first time in weeks. Mitch didn’t know if this was her trying to atone for being disloyal to him or whether she just felt cold. And he didn’t much care. He was just grateful to have her there. Exhausted, he lay there stroking her tummy and listening to her purr. And now the rain started to patter softly against the skylights over his bed. Mitch lay there with Clemmie, listening to it come down and growing sleepier by the second. Soon, they had both drifted off.
His bedside phone jarred him awake. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep. It didn’t seem like very long. He fumbled for it, jostling Clemmie, who sprang from the bed and scampered downstairs. “H-Hello… Whassa?…”
“I’m sorry if I woke you. I just wanted you to know something.”
“Okay… Uh, sure.” Mitch sat up, recognizing the voice on the other end despite the steady, persistent roar in the background. “Where are you?”
“I’m on Sugar Mountain, with the barkers and the colored balloons.”
“Wait, give me a second, I know what that’s… Neil Young, right?”
“You are.”
“What’s that whooshing noise? Are you hanging out in a men’s room somewhere?”
“Not exactly.”
“What time is it anyway?”
“It’s too late. The damage is done. The hangman says it’s time to let her fly.”
“What hangman? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Good-bye, Mitch.”
“Wait, don’t-!”
No use. The line had already gone dead.
Mitch lay there trying to figure out what on earth had just happened. Briefly, he wondered if he’d simply dreamed the whole conversation. He decided there was no sense to be made of it now. He was just too damned tired. So he rolled over and fell immediately back to sleep.