Still Holding Read online

  Reggie kept her workload to a minimum. At the end of the week, he asked for a favor. A longtime client and somewhat eccentric old friend, Tiff Loewenstein, copresident of Fox, was being honored at Casa del Mar. Reggie and his wife were unable to attend. He knew how fond Tiff was of Lisanne (through the years, she’d become so much more than the firm’s amanuensis) and asked her to do some hand-holding. He said Tiff was a wreck. He’d been drinking and had thrown up in the living room, like a dog. His wife kicked him out.

  When Lisanne got to the penthouse suite, Tiff answered the door, sobbing and half-dressed.

  “Hi, baby,” he said with a scary smile. “Thank you for coming! Can I get you anything?”

  She trailed after as he cried his way to the bathroom.

  She had come to his rescue at her boss’s behest before, when Tiff was depressed and holed up in the Colony. (Once he even tried to kiss her. He was drunk and begged forgiveness the next day.) They had an easy intimacy. In the summers, the Loewensteins asked her to Malibu on weekends, and she grew to be a kind of auntie to their kids.

  She was a commodious, safe harbor, someone he could pour his heart out to. He appreciated her wit—and they had more than a few phobias in common. Lisanne had never become acquainted with the man who was a feared Hollywood player; she knew only the vulnerable, courtly, rollicksome bear, and thought the world of him.

  “Roslynn threw me down the stairs, did Reggie tell you?”

  A butterfly bandage graced his temple.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I had Armani send a tux over . . . this one’s from Dolce, think it’s too long? They say that’s the style, but I think it’s for a younger man. Roslynn wouldn’t even let me back in the house! I don’t know if I can squeeze into this.” His hand rose to a second bandage when he caught her looking. “No, no, that’s from the cancer. Can you believe? They did a little scrape. You know, I was one of those kids who didn’t even like to swim in a pool. Never swam in the ocean. Never been a sun freak—that’s Roslynn. Thank God it isn’t melanoma.” He sighed, wiping away fresh tears. “Thank you for coming, Lisanne! So that fucker your boss couldn’t make it, huh? Well fuck him. I’m kidding. Reggie’s one of the good guys.” He sat and sipped his drink. “Everything OK? Everything OK with Reg and Janie and the kids?”

  “Everyone’s great.”

  “Christ, what a year. I got hit with prostate, did Reg tell you that?”

  “No. He didn’t.”

  “They irradiated, which was fine—until two weeks later. That’s when you wake up in the middle of the night screaming. Top of your lungs. I’m not kidding, Lisanne. You try calling the doctor and you get one of those messages saying which buttons to press but you can’t because you’re screaming. I told him I wanted liquid morphine. He said, ‘I can’t do that.’ Didn’t want to give it to me. I said, Then I’ll kill myself because I can’t live with that kind of pain. No one can. And I know myself. I told him I would kill myself and take him down with me, and make sure everyone in this city knew his name before I went. So he gave it to me—two drops under the tongue. And I’ve hardly used it, Lisanne, but I just had to know it was there on the nightstand. Makes me feel better. Because you don’t want to live, Lisanne. You can’t live—not with pain like that. Michael Milken’s been a godsend. And Dominick. Talked me through a lot of it. I even talked to Giuliani.” He started crying again. “You’ve got to take care of yourself, Lisanne! You’re a beautiful girl but you’ve got to take care of yourself. Lose some of the weight. Will you please? Cause you’re open to the heart stuff and the diabetes. You look beautiful, by the way—you’re a gorgeous lady. Do you know I’ve completely changed the way I eat?” He hoisted his glass in the air. “This is a recent thing—the wine—I never drank the way I’m drinking now. And it’s gonna stop tomorrow. The cigarettes too.” He took a deep drag then lifted his shirt like a tease, to show the nicotine patch. “Know what it’s all about? Changing the environment of your body. Cancer likes acid, acidic foods. Loves acid. And sugar. That’s where it likes to grow. You’ve got to go alkaloid, acid versus alkaloid. Raw veggies—alkaloid. Broccoli. I have wheatgrass every day, Lisanne, like a fucking goat. Colonics three times a week to flush out the toxins. They did some tests (all I do are tests) and found I had high levels of mercury. Having all the old fillings taken out. Ever had a colonic? I don’t have a choice. You can do it over in Culver City, there’s a marvelous place, I’ll make the call. Seema—she’s the girl to ask for. You’ve got to take care, Lisanne, while you’re young. My daughter in Michigan—Kittie—you’ve never met Kittie—from my first marriage—had a double mastectomy. They took the tits, the implants, the whole shebang. Shitty implants to begin with. She’s got a South African doctor, a real Christiaan Barnard type. He cut everything off. She’s got tattooed nipples now. He put a hose in there—she comes to the office and he pumps ‘em up with saline, right under the muscle. She calls ‘em Magic Tits. Know what Kittie said when they were wheeling her down to surgery? ‘Dead tits walking!’ The schvug orderlies turned white. Then she wasn’t healing so they put her in a hyperbaric chamber. She’s been through major tsuris. Remember Michael Jackson and the chimp and the hyperbaric chamber? We’re Ashkenazy, so Kittie’s getting herself tested for genetic markers—if they’re positive, he’s gonna rip her ovaries just to be safe. She was taking this nausea pill during chemo. I went to pick the prescription up and the pharmacist says, Boy, she’s got great insurance. It was fifty bucks for thirty pills. I say, So how much would it be without insurance? He goes to the computer. Thirteen hundred dollars! For thirty pills, Lisanne! The country’s a nightmare. They stick it to you cause you’ve got cancer and can’t do without. Who wants to be nauseous? So they rob you. What are we gonna do when the smallpox comes if we can’t even deal with fucking nausea?”

  “Tiff,” she said, taking away his drink. “Why don’t I call room service and get you some coffee?”

  He sniffled, patting her hand. “Thank you, dear. Thank you. So glad you’re here. You’re a real mensch. What do they call a girl-mensch? A womensch? A wench? Listen, sweetheart: any time you want to leave that slick bastard and come work for me, you’ve got a job. Pay you twice what he gives you. But you’ve got to take care of yourself, Lisanne.” He went and stood before the mirror. “Know what my friend Feibleman said? Do you know Peter Feibleman? I love him—brilliant writer. You should eat his fuckin paella. One day he’ll make us all dinner. Sylvia Plath was a huge fan. Not his cooking—his novels. He just went through the prostrate thing too. Said the radiation took away the ‘punctuation’ of sex. And that’s true. All the commas and semicolons are gone. There’s no catharsis. You’re chemically fucking castrated. That moment where life used to hang in the balance—that ‘little death’— gone. You come, or think you do, and then you say, Was that it? Feibleman says, ‘I don’t have that seizure anymore, that paroxysm. I go right to wanting the cheeseburger.’ Don’t you love that? The cheeseburger! But I’ll tell you something, Lisanne: I always wanted the fuhcocktuh cheeseburger. I wanted it before the shtup. Know what I’m addicted to? Know what sex is for me now? Tributes. The cancer took away food and sex and left me with tributes. I’m worse than Quincy—Jesus! They can’t stop giving and he can’t stop getting. Did you know he got a Grammy for Spoken Word? For reading his autobiography out loud! Is that not genius? King Coon goes to Cancún,” he said nonsensically. “A sweet sweet man. Beautiful spirit. We’re supposed to go to Africa in September with Bono. Next month we’ve got Sting and the Poitiers and Medavoys at the Kofi Annan dinner. I got the Ark Trust Genesis in two weeks at the Hilton. (In my honor.) Then the ‘Starlight Dream’ gala-thing at the Kodak—for me and Quincy. Then Roslynn and I have the cervical thing—what’s it called?—whatever, at the Peninsula. Would you go with me, Lisanne? Unless some miracle happens with Roslynn by then, which appears doubtful. Kittie’s flying out for that, you’ll love her. A funny funny lady. And that’s all in one weekend!” He laid upon the bed an
d sighed. “You wade through crap all day and then you put on a tux and feel less like a putz. Hey, that rhymes. And you know what? The applause ain’t so bad either. But I wanna tell ya, I’m seriously addicted. Does that make me a terrible man, Lisanne?” he asked tearfully. “Does it? Does that make me terrible?”

  A Beachside Reunion

  KIT WAS IN the trailer with Xanthe, his assistant. He was at the beach opposite Temescal Canyon, shooting a film with Jennifer Lopez and Anthony Hopkins. Alf and Cameron Diaz, sometime flames, dropped by the set.

  “Thought you might like a little orgy to start your day,” said Alf.

  “Hope you like to watch,” said Kit to Alf, then belched.

  “Ready-teddy,” said Cameron. “That’s what I’m here for. To be fucked like a righteous animal.”

  “Careful what you say around the Man, Cam,” said Alf. “There have been some fairly ugly rumors about Mr. Raffles.”

  Kit gave Alf the evil eye.

  “Oh yeah? Who’s Mr. Raffles?” she asked.

  “His dog. Mr. Raffles seems to have that certain je ne sais ménage à trois quoi.”

  Cameron laughed, and Kit got off the subject by asking if next week they wanted to go to Harrison’s ranch in Jackson Hole with Callista, Ben, and Jennifer. Cameron couldn’t because she had to be in Monaco for an AIDS costume ball.

  Xanthe answered a knock at the door. She took Kit aside and said his father was there to see him.

  • • •

  BURKE LIGHTFOOT SAT at the end of a catering table. He stood when he saw his son approach. The waves crashed weakly a few hundred yards off, lending the reunion a petty dramatic touch.

  “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.”

  Grady got pulled away. He waved at Rusty and the girls as he was sucked into the house.

  “What does Grady do?” asked Becca as they headed toward the pool.

  “Personal trainer. He was Kevin Costner’s stunt double—before he fucked up his leg. They still work out together whenever Kevin does a movie. He’s K.C.’s camera double too.”

  Annie said, “I don’t understand how he has this place.”

  “A settlement from the city.”