Between the Bridge and the River Read online

  Meg was now dating a man she had met through the Church of Brainyism, Crag Harding, the former pro wrestler who was trying to break into action movies. He came to work every day with her. Every time he saw Leon he glared at him with his trademark “scary stare” that he had used to great effect in the World Wrestling Foundation and that he would later employ as the angry robot hell-bent on revenge in the highly successful Killdroid and Killdroid 2: Return of the Killdroid.

  Leon complained to Saul that Crag Harding made him uncomfortable: “I can’t work with that psycho gorilla around, he’s freaking me out.”

  Saul talked to Meg: “Please don’t bring Crag to the set. He’s freaking Leon out.”

  Meg talked to Saul: “Get out of my trailer, you fat pervert.”

  And things went downhill from there.

  By the time the shooting actually started, the head of Uniwarn, who had green-lit the project, Mike Thorne, had been fired and replaced by a new man, the legendary Jeffrey Wiesner, Hollywood’s Mr. Fixit (even if it’s not broken or even in need of maintenance). Wiesner, an ex–car salesman from Baltimore, had been a high-ranking executive at the Disney Corporation and had had great success with a series of feel-good family comedies he’d commissioned. He had a reputation as a “very strong personality,” which meant he was a megalomaniac and a bully.

  Wiesner was delighted to inherit a project that had Janus Borg and Meg Roberts and Leon Martini attached, even if it meant dealing with Saul Martini, who was renowned as a deviant monster. What he was less thrilled about was the script itself.

  Trundle’s script was excellent and covered the guilt and conflict of Tootsiepop Ted and the anguish of his victims along with the frustration of the law-enforcement agent who doggedly pursued him, but Wiesner felt it was too dark and much too grisly.

  He wanted changes.

  He called Saul to his office and told him that he wanted less killing and that more should be made of the relationship between the policeman and his wife, which should be less tense and more lighthearted. He also felt they should have a kid, in fact a couple of kids, and a dog.

  Also he wanted Leon to sing in the movie.

  Saul tried to get around him but Wiesner would not budge. He wanted changes or he would cancel the whole thing, big-time stars and director or not.

  This was the reason Wiesner had been hired by the board of Uniwarn: He would not cater to the artistic types whom they saw as ruining the industry.

  Saul hired Zabadan again to make some more changes and find places to put in songs. As production continued, Wiesner’s demands on the script got more and more ludicrous, and he forced them to reshoot a vast array of scenes. This in turn forced the budget up, which Saul, as producer, would be blamed for.

  Killing by Starlight became almost unrecognizable from the original script. The homicide detective played by Leon now sang at every opportunity—in the bar with his cop buddies, in the house to get his kids to sleep, in a flashback when he sang to his new bride at their wedding, and in one memorable scene he crooned a sensitive ballad to a corpse hidden tastefully under a blanket in the city morgue. The murders were reshot to ensure there was no blood and the victims were seen as to somehow deserve their fate for their life of prostitution. Meg’s character, the policeman’s wife, was given a few monologues where she peeled an orange and talked to her gay friend about her feelings.

  Of course, the changes did not go unnoticed by the actors or director. Leon whined a little but was secretly relieved to have singing added, since this was one area where he knew he was a star. Guillame complained loudly that his character was ridiculous and point-blank refused to wear the “evil eyebrows” that Wiesner wanted. He actually barged into Wiesner’s office and demanded to be released from the movie. Wiesner told him no and managed to placate him with a million-dollar bonus. Guillame was French and an artist but he wasn’t an idiot, and anyway, Wiesner backed down on the eyebrows. Meg actually liked the changes and called Wiesner to thank him. Janus Borg didn’t give a damn and nobody cared what Trundle thought.

  Saul was crushed, though. All this time he had been in charge, he had steered Leon’s career and been the one who took care of business, but he sensed, as the might of Wiesner and Uniwarn took over, that his grip on his brother was slipping. They hardly talked and he knew that in his brother’s eyes Wiesner had diminished him. He was no longer in control of Killing by Starlight or, it seemed, anything else. Toward the end of the shoot, Wiesner, who was a lot happier with the way things were going, called Leon into his office. He told him how happy he was that the changes had been made, and that he felt this was going to be a great big hit movie for both of them. Saul thanked him and agreed, wary of Wiesner’s good humor. Wiesner said that he’d had some market research done and found that the title, Killing by Starlight, which personally he loved, didn’t test well. People thought it was a horror movie.

  Saul said that in a way it was but Wiesner plowed on, ignoring him. He told Saul he had at great expense hired a firm to find the top dozen words that made modern-day Americans feel good. He wanted to have a title that contained at least some of these words.

  The words were, in no particular order: wedding, mega, celebrity, America or American, friend or friendly, shrimp, dollars, holy (although this word had actually tied with bikini), vacation, big, united, and buffet.

  Wiesner said he had considered a bunch of new titles for the movie, including One United American, The Shrimp Vacation, Holy Bikini!, and Megadollar Buffet, but had settled on Big Friendly American Wedding Celebrity because it contained the most words and it was truest to the plot.

  “How can you call a movie about a serial killer who ate the eyes of his victims Big Friendly American Wedding Celebrity?” yelled Saul, finally at the end of his tether.

  Wiesner explained, “Because in the movie, the crimes are big, the cop played by your brother is friendly and American, there is a flashback to his wedding—with Meg Roberts, for Christ’s sake—and she is a celebrity.”

  Saul slumped in his chair.

  “Plus,” Wiesner continued reasonably, “I am the head of the studio and I can do what I fucking want. Now get out.”

  And out Saul went. Every night.

  In frustration he ate more, drank more, fucked harder, and took more Vicodin, his rage and despair taken out on his unfortunate body or the unfortunate bodies of the call girls who turned up at his home in the Hills.

  The reshoots and script changes meant the movie ran over-schedule by an extra three months and by the time shooting finished Saul was a wreck.

  Leon returned to the sitcom, happy to be back. He didn’t tell Saul but he started attending Brainyism meetings and got hooked up to the Boondtdock.

  Meg broke up with Crag because he was afraid of intimacy. She got bored with Brainyism and moved on to hypnoyoga.

  Guillame and Claudette returned to Paris, relieved to be home. Claudette made Guillame swear he would never work in America again, Guillame agreed, and he bought her a stupidly expensive necklace with some of his million-dollar bonus.

  When he died she gave it to UNICEF to raise money for children who needed it.

  Claudette was supportive of Guillame during the nightmare shoot in Hollywood, so she never mentioned what happened with Leon when they were there. It would only have made him angry and he already had enough on his plate.

  She often thought about telling him afterward but he died before she could, and it wasn’t that important anyway.

  CLAUDETTE AND LEON

  THE NIGHT THAT GUILLAME AND CLAUDETTE arrived in Los Angeles they had been having one of their rare arguments. Their plane had been delayed coming out of Charles de Gaulle due to a baggage handlers’ dispute about tea breaks, then the flight itself had been bumpy and busy, so neither of them had slept, and so when they finally arrived at their hotel in L.A., Claudette had wanted to go to bed. Guillame said no, they had to go to the party, he would not go alone, and it was disrespectful of her not to come with him.
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br />   She was too tired and grumpy to realize he was afraid not to go and afraid to go alone, so they had snapped at each other but she relented, and in the back of the car that Saul had sent for them, as they made their way over to the party, she leaned over and kissed his ear and tickled him until he was himself again.

  Everybody fussed over them at the party. Meg Roberts, who seemed a little vivid in person until she explained to them that she’d just had an intensive face peel, had presents for both of them. She gave them signed copies of Men Are Asteroids, Women Are Meteorites and a candle each. One had the word serenity written on it, the other had the word achieve.

  It was all very polite and friendly. Everyone congratulated Guillame on his award and said his performance in Pamplemousse was remarkable and how much they had loved him and the film, although they didn’t mention that they hadn’t actually seen it.

  Leon was very obviously taken with Claudette and he followed her around like a puppy. She was charmed by his enthusiasm and Guillame didn’t mind; he had seen men have this reaction to her before and trusted her, and also he had been drawn into a conversation about his character with the director.

  Borg thought that it would be great for the movie the more normal and suburban Ted appeared so that when he carried out his crimes, the murders—which he was determined to shoot in graphic detail and fuck the studio if they had a problem with that—the contrast would be spectacular.

  Guillame concurred, saying that he took the role because of the interesting juxtaposition between bourgeois family man and serial killer.

  Although it was obvious how to portray a killer in the act of killing, Guillame wondered aloud how to portray normality.

  “He should play golf!” declared Borg.

  “Did he play golf in life?” asked Guillame.

  “I have no idea but it is unimportant. He was also not French. What we are driving at here is the essence of Tootsiepop Ted.”

  Guillame was delighted. He loved to play golf, as did Borg.

  “We should have a round tomorrow, for rehearsal,” said Guillame.

  “Excellent,” Borg agreed.

  Leon steered Claudette to the piano.

  “Do you play golf?” he asked her.

  She laughed. “Non, monsieur, I do not play golf.”

  “What’s funny? Women play golf.”

  “Not this one,” said Claudette.

  Leon sat at the piano. He had learned that the impact of his singing could be enhanced if he accompanied himself, so had learned how to tinkle a few chords. He played and Claudette listened as he sang. A few of the guests drifted from the party but there were quite a few powerful people in attendance, so no one wanted to appear too enthusiastic, just polite admiration would be appropriate.

  Leon ran through his repertoire, giving it all to Claudette with both barrels, and as he did so he admired her composure, which made him want her even more. He had seen that under this kind of seductive pressure most women buckled, became embarrassed, or even came on to him, but she enjoyed his singing and clapped politely with the others when he was done.

  “You sing beautifully, thank you,” she told him.

  Then excused herself and went to find Guillame.

  She had just come out of the bath and was sitting in her robe happily devouring one of the delicious complimentary chocolates the hotel had put out for them when he knocked at the door.

  She was surprised to see him. She said that unfortunately Guillame was not there, he had gone off to play golf with Borg. Leon said that he wasn’t here to see Guillame and walked into the room, closing the door behind him.

  He looked at her, fresh from the bath, hugging the big white terry-cloth robe around herself like a security blanket. She was the most enchanting thing he had ever seen.

  “Claudette, I have a blowjob in mind,” he said softly.

  Claudette couldn’t quite believe her ears. “Pardon?”

  “I need your mouth on me,” he said, using that tone that always worked for him.

  Claudette went to the door and opened it.

  “Please leave,” she said flatly.

  Leon was genuinely mystified. He had never really encountered this kind of thing before. He had mistakenly believed the press and gossip about himself. He had read in Peephole magazine that he was the most eligible single man in the world. “This sexy bachelor can have any woman he wants,” they had written, and they were known for their accuracy.

  In his confusion he thought this was a game. He went to her and tried to embrace her, putting his hands on her robe and forcing it open so that he could see her magnificent body.

  He gasped. Not at the sight of the naked Claudette, although she was indeed breathtaking, but at the sharp pain he felt in his testicles as she kneed him in the nuts. He still couldn’t get a breath after she had thrown him into the hotel corridor and slammed the door of the suite.

  He had to hide his face as a chambermaid looked out a room she was servicing to see what was going on.

  He was deeply ashamed.

  He didn’t want anyone to see he’d been rejected.

  TURNPIKE

  THAT A CAREER CRIMINAL LIKE T-BO would have chosen to ride around in as distinctive a car as the one he had needs a little explanation. The car itself was not owned by T-Bo alone. He had paid cash for it from stolen money he had acquired from his mugging escapades with Silky, Wilson, and occasionally Vermont, although Vermont was usually too high to do much but smoke more crack, so they didn’t really consider him as having a share.

  The last time they took him on a job he had almost gotten them arrested by pulling an attitude with a cop who wanted to know why they were running down the street. The three other boys were together enough to know that the way to fool cops was to be polite and act respectful but unafraid. Vermont had been neither, yelling at the cop, who was black, that he was an Uncle Tom doing whitey’s dirty work for him. The boys managed to get away by saying their friend was a little drunk after having been to the school prom where his girlfriend had ditched him for a white boy. The cop, Buford Manning, didn’t buy it for a minute but he was on his own, it was the end of his shift, his wife was nine months pregnant, and he wanted to go home. He was quite happy to drop the whole thing if he didn’t lose face. T-Bo, Silky, and Wilson played the forelock tugging just right and managed to get away but they never took Vermont out again. He was fun to party with but he was a liability in the field.

  They bought the car together for status and protection. If they had kept the cash and that became known, even if they had it secreted somewhere, they would have become targets for other guys in the neighborhood. One or maybe all of them could be kidnapped or tortured until they had given up the goods. Also, if they kept the money in cash, then they had to believe that one of them would not at some point abscond with all the money. The boys were uneducated but they were not stupid, so they plowed a chunk of money into the car. They could ride in it together, they could chase girls, look good, and feel cool. Just what every teenager wants.

  Buying a car also involved less paperwork than most other big purchases, so it was easier to have the legality forged should you be stopped by a cop, and if you are young and black and in a pimped ride, you will definitely be stopped by a cop.

  That’s one of the things that gives the car status with other kids.

  So the car was owned three ways and they had put more money into it, getting it just the way they wanted it, and now T-Bo had stolen it. There was no chance the other boys would report the car as stolen, and they had no idea in which direction T-Bo was headed, but if they ever saw him again they would have to shoot him. They knew it and T-Bo knew it. So he was never going back to Miami.

  He thought about this as he drove north on the Florida Turnpike with his new gang. He felt bad about taking the car and promised himself that one day he would make it up to his friends.

  He also began to countenance the thought that he would have to make amends to the people he had mugged. H
e shook that off. Too much too soon.

  Fraser was looking at the flat, wet countryside and thinking about the French policeman who had banjaxed him with the truncheon. He said he shook like a Bethlehem shepherd. What did he mean by that? He wondered who had written Could do better on his report card.

  Jesus?

  Probably.

  He wondered what Carl would make of all this.

  Vermont was thinking about crack cocaine. He had always promised himself he would never turn out to be a drunk like his old man. He had hated the way the fool had drooled on himself and been a laughingstock among the family and in the neighborhood and yet he felt he had done the exact same thing to himself with the pipe. He was done with that shit. He felt free; the open-top car added to the sensation. He felt as good as he had ever felt in his life. He held his hands up in the air and with sheer delight he screamed, “Yee fucking haw!” in his best cowboy.

  The others smiled.

  Cherry had not eaten as much as she had in Hooters in one sitting since before she started having her period. She felt good too but a bit sick. She felt her rib cage with her fingers, she touched her nipples through her shirt, trying to find where her breasts used to be. At twenty-three she thought she should be at the absolute peak of her physical beauty as a woman and yet here she was like a fucking scarecrow. She decided she really needed to put on some weight. Her body, unaccustomed to the calorie intake and fried food, was in a mild state of toxic shock and her digestive tract was in some kind of emergency mode.

  “I need to go to the bathroom,” she said.

  “Me too,” said Fraser.

  T-Bo said he would pull in at the next stop.

  Mickey Day was an angry man.

  He had been angry when he worked as a high-school math teacher in Boston. He thought it might be because the students were such a pain in the ass but when he retired the anger didn’t go away. He thought maybe it was because of his wife, Agnes, who was such a fucking chowderhead, but he could get plenty angry these days and Agnes had been in her grave for two years. Maybe it was because he didn’t have kids or because of the government or the media or all of the above. He guessed it came down to one absolute truth: Other people were just fucking assholes. They consistently proved his point by the way they drove or acted around him. You had to carry a gun for protection. It made him feel better knowing it was there, sitting in the glove compartment like buried treasure.