Fifty Grand

“No, no, well, yes, but it wasn’t a biggie. The garage fucked up the repair, if you want to know. You shouldn’t even be able to see it. Nearest dealership is in Texas and I’m not driving it to Texas. So anyway, what about you? What are you doing out here?”

“I wanted to see some of the country.”

“Should have been here a few weeks ago, the leaves were at their peak.”

When we hit the outskirts of Fairview, Jack turned to me. His face had assumed a rigid intensity. He was either about to lie to me or he was going to try some of his acting.

“Listen, uh, M…”

“María.”

“I remembered! Come on. María, of course, listen, I’ve been invited to this dinner party and they said bring a date and I called Paul and he couldn’t come up with anybody this late and I know this is kind of short notice, but, hell, do you wanna come?”

“Paul won’t be there?”

“No.”

“I’ll come.”

“What’s the matter, you don’t like Paul?”

“No.”

“Lot of women don’t like him. He’s a good guy, you know, comes across as a bit of an ass. But basically a good chap, a really good egg.”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell that that was an English accent?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never drunk tea or met an Englishman in my life.”

“Lucky old you. L.A. is plagued by them. They’re all very insecure. I know a couple of writers. They’re the worst. Chain-smoking Marlboro reds, ridiculous.”

“You know English writers? Have you read the poet Philip Larkin?” I asked him.

“The what? The who?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Anyway, where were we? Oh yes. So you’ll come?”

“To a party, yes,” and wordlessly I added It’s been a trying day.

“You’ll come? You’ll be my date?” he asked insecurely.

“I said yes.”

“Ok, well, don’t freak, but I’m kind of on my way over there right now.”

I wasn’t following him. “Why would I freak?”

“It’s a party. Don’t you need, like, three hours to get ready?”

“No, but I’ll bet you do.”

He laughed. “Low blow, yet strangely accurate. We’re all fags now, although I’m not as vain as some, believe me, I could tell you stories,” he says, fluffing his gelled hair in the rearview.

“But I do want some time. Look at me.”

“You look great.”

“Pull in there.”

Gas station. He spent a small fortune filling the Bentley while I washed my face and attempted to make my hair slightly interesting with the hot-air hand dryer.

I pinched some color into my cheeks and applied red lipstick.

I looked ok and if anyone said I didn’t I had a sledgehammer and a Smith & Wesson to change their mind.

“Whose house is it?” I asked when we’re back in the car.

“Oh, no one you would know, unless you read the trades, which you probably don’t. Not someone conventionally famous, but very A-list, a producer, big enchilada in a behind-the-scenes kind of way.”

“What’s his name?”

“Alan Watson. Look him up on IMDB, more movies this year than Judd fucking Apatow. Producing or coproducing credit on half a dozen flicks. Playa with a capital P. Total wacko, of course. All the big ones are. The house is only two doors away from the Cruise estate at the top of the mountain. And with Cruise shooting pickups for that Nazi movie, this week Watson is the big bear on Malibu Mountain.”

The house was indeed only two doors from the Cruise estate at the top of the mountain, but those doors were at least half a kilometer apart. The homes up here were all huge poronga affairs, faux Swiss chalets or supersized mountain ski lodges with ample grounds, guesthouses, outdoor Jacuzzis, pools, stables. Esteban said that Cruise and a few others had their own private ski runs to the valley and even chairlifts that ran back up to the house.

Watson’s house did not have a private ski run that I could see but it did have three floors and was the size of a small Havana apartment building. The style was Spanish hacienda with ultramodern features: radio antennae, quadruple garage, satellite dishes, swimming pool, solar panels, and a wind turbine that probably massacred local birds by the score. Even without Esteban’s and Jack’s prep it would have been obvious to me that Watson was in the upper echelons of the power elite.

Judging from the cars outside, the party appeared to be a small but upscale affair. Two Mercs, a Rolls-Royce, a Ferrari, and Jack’s Bentley.

We rang the bell and I admired the paintwork on the cars. In Havana all vehicles except for the very newest are finished in glossy outdoor house paint, but these were in subtle attractive shades: racing green, midnight blue, morning gray. As you got wealthier, I speculated, your tastes rebelled against the primary colors of the common herd.

Jack had yet to learn that lesson with his white Bentley.

We rang the bell again and someone said, “It’s open!”