of living next to each other. We both had the same landlord, Pauley, an art director I’d worked for at M.G.M. during the good times. We were both artists, so we were both broke all the time, but Steaks was a New Yorker and naturally felt superior, I was from Texas and naturally couldn’t take that attitude. After annoying one another for two months we finally called a truce and had been talking with reasonable courtesy for almost a month now. She only dated hotshots and I rarely “dated.”
I straightened my tie and slipped into my bronze sharkskin suit. Paps and I had come out to L.A. a few years back with the idea that we could shake the grief of a close friend’s death by taking Hollywood by storm in his honor. The storm had rained on us and we spent a lot of time scuffling. Paps had noticed early on that people in Hollywood had kids but no time to take care of them. So he’d become babysitter to the stars, making good money, living in mansions and taking care of the children of the busy rich.
His death was a real shock, one of those tragic accidents that have become part of today’s big action movies. His latest babysitting client was a producer who offered him a chance to pick up some extra money as an extra in a battle scene. Paps was to sit behind a desk, the camera at his back when the bad guys blasted open the door in front of him. Somebody put a little too much powder in the charge and the door splintered with such force that Paps was blown out of his chair, a thin sliver of wood sticking right through his heart.
I looked at the clock; B.B. would be here in a few minutes. B.B. was the archetypal Hollywood woman. Born into the system, she had rebelled in the sixties and gone to live in an Ashram somewhere. It was there that she had her only son. They had a theory at this Ashram that little boys were just like big boys. When a baby cried it was because either he was hungry, or in pain, or had shit himself, or he wanted a blowjob. In a way I couldn’t fault the logic, once I had accepted the premise, it had been after all a staple for the nannies of European royalty where a crying baby might get you a lashing. After she had told me that, I had a hard time French kissing her without thinking about it. It was one of those images that hung in the back of your mind.
I had told Paps about it one night over a couple of beers at Barney’s Beanery. Paps assured me that this kinda’ thing was relatively common among his wealthy Hollywood clientele.
“Most of these people have some kinda’ weird trip going on with their kids,” he said, looking thoughtfully into his beer, “Sometimes real weird.”
He had called me, not long ago, to ask me about witches and their children. He wanted to know if I’d read or heard anything about any special rituals witches might use to initiate or train their children in the dark arts. I told him there were all kinds of stories and legends about witches and other people’s kids.
“Why,” I asked, “what’s on your mind?”
“Maybe nothing,” he said, “I mean, I’ve seen all kinds but these kids I got now… I dunno’… something’s real strange.”
He wouldn’t say anything else, except that we’d get together real soon and talk about it. Two weeks later Paps was dead.
I hadn’t thought about that conversation and now the thought gave me cold shivers.
I walked over to the stack of cardboard boxes. Paps’ things. His final client’s driver dropped them off yesterday. The production company was paying for his funeral and cremation. He had no living kin; I was to receive his ashes. Paps didn’t trust banks or the economy; he spent his money as fast as he made it, most of it on the girls at the Oriental Health Spa down the street from my loft. I had considered scattering his ashes in the Jacuzzi there in compliance with his last request but I knew I’d never get away with it. Even if I did, the thought of Paps winding up in the scum filter of a whorehouse bubble tub didn’t sit well with me.
I stared at the boxes. Somehow, there was a strange malevolence buzzing around inside of them like a trapped fly. There was a knock at the door and a familiar voice calling my name. It was B.B.
“Hurry up, we’re running late,” she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me out into the bright afternoon. B.B. was a “take charge” kinda’ girl. I barely had time to close the door. Within seconds we were locked in air-conditioned comfort, speeding down Sunset Boulevard in her brown B.M.W. “Before I forget, here’s something Paps asked me to give you. ”She handed me a small envelope with a birthday card and a small key inside. “When did you see Paps?”
“About two days before the accident. I was on the set visiting Ed, the producer, when Paps came up to me.” She sighed. “We started talking about old times.” She smiled. “He gave me this envelope as an excuse for me to see you again. He was gonna’ mail it to you but, I guess he read my mind.” She sighed again. “He always thought there was something special between us. I told him I’d picked you up hitchhiking not long ago but that you didn’t give me your new address and phone number so he did…”
I sighed. “If I remember correctly, you didn’t ask.”
She turned to me and sniffed at little at my interruption. She was almost lovely in the afternoon light, her long, black, wavy hair blowing in the air-conditioning, those large, doe-dark eyes, that thin surgically sculpted face: she coulda’ been an ad for some sports car with a name like LeMans. Sexy-high-tech-city-night: you’ve seen the commercial, meet the girl.
“Anyway, I‘d decided to mail it to you when this happened. It’s such a tragedy. I feel so sorry for Ed; it seems like somebody dies on every movie he makes. He was just getting over the guilt from that last accident where that clumsy gaffer electrocuted himself when this had to happen.”
I was trying to get a headache from her conversation just to relieve the heartache of hearing it.
“Right,’ I said, “poor Ed.”
B.B. wheeled her car into the parking lot of the funeral home and hurried me inside. The services had already started so everyone had to turn and stare when we entered. B.B. loved it. She waved at her friends and winked at the usher who escorted us down the aisle to one of the front pews. I sat uncomfortably through the strange eulogy being delivered by this bearded guy in a leisure suit with the compulsory dark shirt unbuttoned to the chest.
I was glad this was a closed coffin service and that Paps was not looking up at this guy who must have considered himself God’s press agent. A diamond encrusted dollar sign hung against his hairy, tan chest, a chilling reminder of the growing belief that somehow there was an equation between God’s love and money. It said basically the same thing as a jewel studded cross or a gold Star of David, it just said it a little louder.
After the service I was taken to a small side room by the usher and stood with Ed, the producer, while Paps’ ashes were turned to ashes. The setting sun coming through the cheap stained glass window flashed off of Ed’s expensive sunglasses as he talked patronizingly about “dear Paps.” Just when I thought I would throw up, a man in a dark suit appeared with the urn, which he ceremoniously handed to Ed. Ed, in turn, handed it to me with the words,
“You don’t know how sorry I am.”
“I understand,” I said, “but I wanted to ask you something.”
He was trying to make a quick exit when I’d caught him with that question. He turned back to me with a paranoid smile.
“Of course, what is it?”
“Well, it’s not really important, but Paps and I were from Texas…”
“I see, and…” He stepped closer.
“And
