The Douglas Kennedy Collection #2 Page 8

  “You shithead.”

  “The prosecution rests.”

  Meg opened the front passenger door.

  “How are you guys doing?” she asked.

  “We’re having our first fight,” Bobby said.

  Gary climbed in the driver’s seat and put the car into gear. We traveled down an unpaved road, the canopy of trees quickly closing over us. After a minute or so, I turned around and looked behind me. The little landing strip had vanished. Up ahead of us was nothing but jungle.

  “Now gentlemen,” Gary said, “I have some news. Mr. Fleck is delighted you’re with us, and he wants you both to have a great stay on the island. Unfortunately, however, he’s had to go away for a few days . . .”

  “What?” I said.

  “Mr. Fleck left yesterday for a few days.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding!” Bobby said.

  “No, Mr. Barra—I am definitely not kidding.”

  “But he knew we were coming,” Bobby said.

  “Of course he did. And he regrets he had to leave on such short notice . . .”

  “Did some big business thing come up?” Bobby asked.

  “Not exactly,” Gary said with a slight laugh. “But you know how keen he is on fishing. And when we got word that the marlin were biting down off the coast of St. Vincent . . .”

  “St. Vincent?” Bobby said. “But that’s, like, a two-day cruise from here.”

  “More like thirty-six hours.”

  “Terrific,” Bobby said. “So, if he gets there tonight and fishes tomorrow, he won’t be back for another three days.”

  “I’m afraid that’s about right,” Gary said. “But Mr. Fleck wants you to kick back and enjoy everything Saffron Island has to offer.”

  “But we came—at his request—to see him,” Bobby said.

  “And you will see him,” Gary said. “In a couple of days.”

  Bobby nudged me with his elbow. “What the hell do you think of this?”

  I knew what I wanted to say: “ . . . and you kept telling me you were his great friend.” But I didn’t want any more verbal fisticuffs with Bobby. So instead I just said, “Well, if I had to choose between a writer and a marlin, I’d definitely go for the marlin.”

  “Yeah, but fish don’t have to worry about a client base and the current fucked-up state of the Nasdaq.”

  “Now, Mr. Barra—you know that our Business Services Center can patch you right into the center of any market you want. And we can open a dedicated line for you and your clients on a twenty-four/seven basis, should you want one. So, really, there’s nothing to panic about.”

  “And,” Meg interjected, “the weather forecast for the next week is perfect. Not a hint of rain, light southerly breezes, and the mercury should hold steady at eighty-five degrees.”

  “So you can keep track of the market and get a tan,” Gary said.

  “Are you pissed off?” Bobby asked me.

  Of course I was. But, once again, I decided to play it nice and temperate. So I shrugged and said, “I guess I could use some sun.”

  The Land Rover continued to bump along the jungly track. Then it came to a clearing. We parked next to an open-air shed, beneath which were three other Land Rovers and a large white transit van. I was going to ask why there was a need for four Land Rovers and a transit van on a tiny island . . . but, once again, I said nothing. Instead, I followed Meg as she led us up a small footpath, paved in chunky pebbles. After ten yards, we came to a small footbridge, which traversed a large ornamental pond. I glanced down and noticed that it was loaded with a wide variety of tropical fish. Then I looked up and gasped. For there, in front of me, was the massive expanse of Chez Fleck.

  From the air, it appeared to be a large timber structure. Up close, it revealed itself as an extravagant piece of modern design—a low-level sprawl of huge windows and lacquered wood. At either end of this tropical mansion were two cathedral-like towers, framed on all sides by four towering panes of glass. Between these two winglike structures was a smaller series of V-shaped towers, each with a large picture window. We followed a wooden boardwalk to the opposite side of the house. As we turned the corner, I suppressed another gauche gasp—as a vast natural rock swimming pool had been set directly in front of the mansion. Beyond this, the blue began—as the house had a clear, unimpeded view of the Caribbean Sea.

  “Good God,” I said. “That’s some view.”

  “Yeah,” Bobby said. “It’s serious ‘fuck you.’ ”

  His cellphone started ringing. He answered it. After muttering a hello, he was instantly engaged in business.

  “So what’s the margin? . . . Yeah, but this time last year they were trading at twenty-nine . . . Of course I’ve been monitoring the Netscape guys . . . do you really think I’m going to walk you into a sucker punch? . . . you remember the market blip way back in ’97 . . . February fourteenth, 1997, right after the Lewinsky stupidity hit the fan, and there was a minor correction for around seventy-two hours. But the long-term implications . . .”

  I listened on, dazzled by Bobby’s mastery of fact and figures and the smooth delivery that he used for clients (as compared to the ferocious way he bullied minions). I noticed Gary and Meg also listening in to his consummate salesmanship. I wondered if they were thinking what I was thinking: how could such a sharp man of the marketplace turn into such a crass clown when faced with serious money? And why did he insist on playing the Neanderthal when it came to women? Then again, money and sex make fools of us all. Perhaps Bobby had decided that he didn’t mind letting the world see how—when it came to his obsessions—he was positively naked in his stupidity.

  He snapped shut his cellphone, then unclenched his shoulders and said, “Never take on a dermatologist as a client. Every blip in the market is a melanoma to them. Anyway,” he said, nudging Gary, “you heard me promise the prick an answer in ten . . .”

  Gary picked up the walkie-talkie on his belt and spoke into it.

  “Julie, I’ve got Mr. Barra en route. He’ll want the full Nasdaq index up on screen by the time we reach you . . . in about three minutes. Over?”

  A voice crackled on the walkie-talkie’s speaker. “He’s got it.”

  “Lead the way,” Bobby said to Gary, then swerved his head toward me and added: “Catch your act later, if you still deign to talk to a low-grade like me.”

  As soon as they were gone, Meg said, “Shall I show you to your room now?”

  “Fine by me.”

  We went inside. The main entrance hall was a long, airy corridor, with white walls and bleached wood floors. As I walked in, I found myself immediately face to face with one of the key works of twentieth-century American abstract art: an arresting canvas of mathematical equations set amidst a brilliantly textured gray surface.

  “Is that Mark Tobey’s Universal Field?” I asked Meg.

  “You know your art,” she said.

  “I’ve only seen it in books. Amazing.”

  “If you like art, you should check out what we call the Big Room around here.”

  “Do we have the time now?”

  “This is Saffron Island—there’s as much time as you want.”

  We turned left and walked down the corridor, past a long framed collection of classic Diane Arbus photographs. The Big Room was just that—one of the two vast, cathedral-like wings, with a forty-foot ceiling, completely clad in glass, and a massive indoor palm tree sprouting from the floor. Like everything I had seen so far, the Big Room was a testament to expensive good taste. There was a Steinway grand piano. There were long sofas and overstuffed armchairs in discreet off-white shades. There was a massive aquarium, built flush into one of the white stone walls. There was artfully subtle lighting. And there was a lot of art on the walls . . . the sort of work that you generally expected to encounter at MOMA or the Whitney or the Getty or the Art Institute of Chicago.

  I moved around the room like a visitor at a museum, boggled by the work on show. Hopper. Ben Shahn. Two mid-per
iod Philip Gustons. Man Ray. Thomas Hart Baker. Claes Oldenburg. George L. K. Morris. And a collection of Edward Steichen’s landmark Vanity Fair photographs from the thirties.

  On and on it went. There must have been at least forty works hanging on the walls of the Big Room. I couldn’t even begin to fathom the amount of money expended to create such a collection.

  “It’s unbelievable what he’s got here.”

  A voice out of nowhere said:

  “You should see what’s on display at the other houses.”

  I looked up and found myself staring at a small squat guy, in his mid-forties, around five foot five, with shoulder-length hair, braided into a greasy ponytail. He wore a pair of denim cut-offs, Birkenstock sandals, and a T-shirt stretched over his pot belly, with a picture of Jean-Luc Godard, beneath which was the quotation: “Cinema is truth at 24 frames per second.”

  “You must be Dave Armitage,” he said.

  “That’s me,” I said.

  “Chuck Karlson,” he said, walking over and proffering his hand. I took it. It was wet to the touch. “I’m a big fan of yours.”

  “That’s nice to hear.”

  “Yeah—Selling You is, for my bucks, the best thing on television. Phil thinks so too.”

  “You’re a friend of his?”

  “An associate, actually. I’m his film guy.”

  “And what does a ‘film guy’ do?”

  “Primarily I look after his archive.”

  “He’s got a film archive?”

  “You bet—with around seven thousand films on celluloid and another fifteen thousand split between video and DVD. Outside of the American Film Institute, it’s the best archive in the country.”

  “Let alone the Caribbean.”

  Chuck smiled. “He only keeps around two thousand movies here on Saffron.”

  “I guess with no multiplex in town . . .”

  “Yeah—and, you know, Blockbuster doesn’t exactly ship Pasolini movies out here.”

  “You like Pasolini?”

  “To me, he’s a god.”

  “And to Mr. Fleck?”

  “He’s God the Father. Anyway, we’ve got all twelve of his films—so whenever you like, the screening room’s yours.”

  “Thanks,” I said, thinking that The Gospel According to St. Matthew (the only Pasolini I’d seen) was about the last thing I wanted to watch on a Caribbean island.

  “By the way, I know Phil’s really looking forward to working with you.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “If you don’t mind me saying so, it’s a great script.”

  “Which one? His or mine?”

  Another of his major smirks. “They both have equal validity.”

  That’s certainly diplomatic of you, I thought, considering they’re both the same.

  “Listen, speaking of the script,” I said, “I’ve done a bit of work on it over the past few days and was wondering if I might get it typed up.”

  “No problem. I’ll get Joan to drop over to your room and pick it up. See you at the movies, Dave.”

  Meg now led me to my room. En route, I asked her about herself. She said that she was from Florida and had been part of “the Saffron Island crew” for the past two years. She used to work on a cruise ship out of Nassau, but this was a lot more pleasant. And easy—because, by and large, the crew were the only people here.

  “You mean, Mr. Fleck doesn’t use the island very often?” I asked.

  “Only about three or four weeks a year.”

  “And the rest of the time?”

  “It’s empty . . . though, occasionally, he might lend the island to one of his friends. But that’s maybe another four weeks a year maximum. Otherwise, we’ve got the place to ourselves.”

  “How many are you?”

  “A full-time staff of fourteen.”

  “Good God,” I said, thinking what the annual wage bill must be like . . . especially given that the island was in use less than two months per year.

  “Well, Mr. Fleck’s got the money,” she said.

  My room was in one of the smaller V-shaped turrets that defined the center section of the house. “Small” was an inaccurate way of describing this loftlike space. White stone walls. Hardwood floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out directly on the water. A king-size Mission bed. A large living area, with two enormous sofas. A full bar, stocked with everything upscale. A bathroom with a sunken bathtub, a sauna, and one of those showers—encased in clear Plexiglas—that shot water at five different corners of the body. Above the bedroom, accessed by a circular metal staircase, was a complete office area, with all the requisite communications gadgets.

  But, without question, the gadgety coup de théâtre was the three flat computer screens in my room. They were conveniently located on the desk, on an end table in the living room, and by the bed. Each screen was completely interactive. You touched it with your finger and it came to life, informing you that this was your very own in-room audio and video center. I tapped the screen, and then the prompt marked Video Library. The letters of the alphabet were then displayed. I touched A—and a list of thirty films appeared on the screen: everything from Godard’s Alphaville to Joseph Mankewicz’s All About Eve to Joseph Strick’s Ulysses. I touched Alphaville. Suddenly, the state-of-the-art Panasonic flat-screen television (suspended on a wall) came to life. After a second, Godard’s skewed futuristic classic filled the screen. I hit the back button on the screen. The alphabet appeared again. I touched C and selected Citizen Kane. Within seconds, Alphaville had ended and I was watching Welles’s classic opening tracking shot—the high sequestered walls and gates, behind which lurks the vast mansion of a modern-day Kubla Khan.

  But Charles Foster Kane never had a toy like this on-command movie system.

  A knock came at the door. When I shouted “Come in,” Meg entered.

  “Mind if I unpack your things now?” she asked.

  “Thanks, but I can do that myself.”

  “It’s all part of the service,” she said, hoisting my bag. “I am your butler.”

  She shot me the slightest of smiles—one that just hinted at a trace of irony behind the casual, yet highly professional, facade.

  “See you’ve figured out the movie system. Kind of nifty, isn’t it?”

  “Just a little. It’s an amazing selection of films.”

  “Mr. Fleck has everything,” she said, disappearing into the adjoining dressing room with my bag. I went upstairs to the office area. I unpacked my laptop and plugged it directly into the Internet link. As Meg had promised, this fiber-optic system was just a little faster than a single exhalation of breath. Within a nanosecond, I was online and retrieving my e-mail. Among the messages from Brad Bruce and Alison was the one I was hoping for.

  Darling,

  It’s crazy here. But I am still holding my own.

  Missing you.

  S.

  I had several immediate thoughts about this e-mail. The first was: Well, at least she did make contact. The second was: Well, at least she did say she was missing me. And the third was: Why didn’t she sign it “love”?

  Then the rational side of me kicked in, and I reminded myself once again that she was in a major LA-style Sturm und Drang. And in Hollywood, a professional crisis of this ilk was immediately transformed by all involved into something approaching the siege of Stalingrad.

  In other words, she was preoccupied.

  There was another knock on the door. A woman in her early thirties, with short-cropped black hair and a deep tan, walked in. She was also dressed in the regulation Saffron Island T-shirt and shorts. Like Meg, she also looked like one of those clean-limbed, fresh-faced women who probably once did time as a sorority sister at some Big Ten University and no doubt dated a fullback named Bud.

  “Hey there, Mr. Armitage,” she said. “I’m Joan. You settling in okay?”

  “Just fine.”

  “Hear you’ve got a script for us to type up.”

  “
That’s right,” I said, grabbing the screenplay out of my computer bag and heading downstairs to the living room. “I’m afraid I don’t have the original disk . . .”

  “No worries about that. We can retype the whole thing.”

  “Won’t that be a lot of work?”

  She shrugged. “Things have been a little slow here recently. I could use the work.”

  “You’re going to have to decipher my hieroglyphics,” I said, flipping open to the third page and pointing to my numerous excisions and additions.

  “I’ve seen worse. Anyway, you’re going to be here for a few days, right?”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll call you if I get stuck anywhere.”

  As she left, Meg came out of the dressing room, carrying two pairs of my trousers.

  “These got a little crushed in your bag, so I’ll get them freshly pressed. Now are you in the mood for a proper dinner or just something light?”

  I glanced at my watch. It was nearly nine p.m., though my brain was still four hours behind on LA time. “Something very light, if it’s no trouble . . .”

  “Well, Mr. Armitage . . .”

  “David, please.”

  “Mr. Fleck likes us to use Mr. with his guests. So how about a dozen oysters and a bottle of . . .”

  “Gewürztraminer. But just a glass.”

  “I’ll get the sommelier to bring a bottle. If you don’t drink it all, no big deal.”

  “There’s a sommelier here?”

  “Every island should have one.” Another of her little smiles. “Back in a bit with your oysters.”

  Then she left.

  A few minutes later, the sommelier rang. His name was Claude. He said that he was happy to help me choose a Gewürztraminer—and he had around two dozen in his cellar. I asked him to suggest one. He began an elaborate goût-par-goût rundown on his choix préferés, informing me that he especially favored a 1986 Gisselbrecht: “un vin d’Alsace exceptionnel,” with a perfect balance of fruit and acidity.

  “You know I just want a glass,” I said.

  “We will still send up the bottle.”

  As soon as I was off the phone, I went online, found a website for vintage wines, and typed Gisselbrecht Gewürztraminer 1986. A photograph of the wine in question appeared on my laptop screen, along with a detailed description, informing me that among premier cru Gewürztraminers, this was top of the pops. And I could order a bottle for a mere $275 “at a special discount price.”