you just have to do your work, play the game, count your beans at the end of the week, see how you’re doing.”
He sucked up one of the cubes from the glass, crunched on it. “But we’re doing okay, Rhonda. Okay in that regard. Big doings, in fact. Deal of a lifetime. We’ll be set.” He looked up from the fire. “It’s going to take everything I’ve got to get this thing off the ground—everything
we’ve
got, in fact—but it’ll pay off in the end, you don’t have to worry about that.”
He swung his gaze away from her vacant stare. “And don’t worry about Paige. I have people keeping an eye on her down there.”
He sat quietly for a moment, then checked his watch. “Medicine time, kiddo.” He put his drink down, opened a drawer in the table. He withdrew a syringe, a med bottle, flicked the needle cap away with his thumbnail, stabbed through the seal, loaded up. Something one of her attendants could have done, of course, but what the hey, he could shoulder some of the burden, couldn’t he?
He held the syringe between his teeth, turned Rhonda’s arm in one hand, chafed the dry flesh inside her elbow with the other. He found an unscarred spot—a blessing, given the number of times she’d been stuck—jabbed, shot, tossed the works into the special disposal bag they were supposed to use—no needles washing up on the beaches anymore, thank you very much—all of it done in less than a minute. At first he’d been squeamish, but it was a daily routine: one does what one has to do.
He picked up his drink when it was over, saluted her. “You’re a trooper, Rhonda.” He noticed the needle guard on the carpet, bent, and tossed it into the can. Not a can, really, but something fashioned from an elephant’s foot. She’d brought it back from Africa, in the pre-endangered species days, before the whales and the owls had become their friends. Rhonda had wanted to get rid of the thing, but he’d held fast. He wondered if it might still bother her.
He glanced up at her. “Paige said she sends her love, sweetheart. Kiss-kiss.” He made smooching motions with his lips as he stood. He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand as he started away.
“I’m going to hit the shower,” he said. “There’s a screening at the Directors’ Guild tonight. Some remastered print, tribute to Gregg Toland. Bobby Wise, the ghost of Orson Welles, they’ll all ask about you.” He nailed the last of the scotch in his glass, glanced at the sideboard, decided against another. There was a picture on one side of the alcove, an old publicity still, Rhonda on the set—something vaguely borderlands seedy—with the big man himself. Orson, smiling and handsome, before he’d started to bloat, Joseph Cotten looking stern in the background, Rhonda spilling plenty of cleavage from an off-the-shoulder Carmen Miranda getup.
“I ever tell you about the last time I saw Orson?” he asked absently. “It was a party the winery he worked for got up out in the desert, at the Annenbergs. He was immense by then, took two guys to lower him into a chair, two more to get him up.” He shook his head, smiling at the memory, his head swimming a bit with the scotch. “Sonny Bono, who wasn’t the mayor yet, comes over to shake hands, Orson reaches up, grabs hold, then he loses his balance and falls back, all the time still holding on to Sonny. Looked like some kung fu movie,” he said, laughing. “Threw the little shit clear over the couch.”
He put his empty glass down, wiped a tear from his eye. He glanced over at Rhonda’s deadpan profile.
Jesus
, he thought.
You couldn’t get a laugh out of something like that, what was the point of living
?
“I’ll have Wesley look in on you,” he said finally, and went out.
***
He found her in the dressing room off the bedroom. She was bent over, rooting around in the small refrigerator they’d installed there, sorting through the trays of medications, vials of this and that, several
He sucked up one of the cubes from the glass, crunched on it. “But we’re doing okay, Rhonda. Okay in that regard. Big doings, in fact. Deal of a lifetime. We’ll be set.” He looked up from the fire. “It’s going to take everything I’ve got to get this thing off the ground—everything
we’ve
got, in fact—but it’ll pay off in the end, you don’t have to worry about that.”
He swung his gaze away from her vacant stare. “And don’t worry about Paige. I have people keeping an eye on her down there.”
He sat quietly for a moment, then checked his watch. “Medicine time, kiddo.” He put his drink down, opened a drawer in the table. He withdrew a syringe, a med bottle, flicked the needle cap away with his thumbnail, stabbed through the seal, loaded up. Something one of her attendants could have done, of course, but what the hey, he could shoulder some of the burden, couldn’t he?
He held the syringe between his teeth, turned Rhonda’s arm in one hand, chafed the dry flesh inside her elbow with the other. He found an unscarred spot—a blessing, given the number of times she’d been stuck—jabbed, shot, tossed the works into the special disposal bag they were supposed to use—no needles washing up on the beaches anymore, thank you very much—all of it done in less than a minute. At first he’d been squeamish, but it was a daily routine: one does what one has to do.
He picked up his drink when it was over, saluted her. “You’re a trooper, Rhonda.” He noticed the needle guard on the carpet, bent, and tossed it into the can. Not a can, really, but something fashioned from an elephant’s foot. She’d brought it back from Africa, in the pre-endangered species days, before the whales and the owls had become their friends. Rhonda had wanted to get rid of the thing, but he’d held fast. He wondered if it might still bother her.
He glanced up at her. “Paige said she sends her love, sweetheart. Kiss-kiss.” He made smooching motions with his lips as he stood. He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand as he started away.
“I’m going to hit the shower,” he said. “There’s a screening at the Directors’ Guild tonight. Some remastered print, tribute to Gregg Toland. Bobby Wise, the ghost of Orson Welles, they’ll all ask about you.” He nailed the last of the scotch in his glass, glanced at the sideboard, decided against another. There was a picture on one side of the alcove, an old publicity still, Rhonda on the set—something vaguely borderlands seedy—with the big man himself. Orson, smiling and handsome, before he’d started to bloat, Joseph Cotten looking stern in the background, Rhonda spilling plenty of cleavage from an off-the-shoulder Carmen Miranda getup.
“I ever tell you about the last time I saw Orson?” he asked absently. “It was a party the winery he worked for got up out in the desert, at the Annenbergs. He was immense by then, took two guys to lower him into a chair, two more to get him up.” He shook his head, smiling at the memory, his head swimming a bit with the scotch. “Sonny Bono, who wasn’t the mayor yet, comes over to shake hands, Orson reaches up, grabs hold, then he loses his balance and falls back, all the time still holding on to Sonny. Looked like some kung fu movie,” he said, laughing. “Threw the little shit clear over the couch.”
He put his empty glass down, wiped a tear from his eye. He glanced over at Rhonda’s deadpan profile.
Jesus
, he thought.
You couldn’t get a laugh out of something like that, what was the point of living
?
“I’ll have Wesley look in on you,” he said finally, and went out.
***
He found her in the dressing room off the bedroom. She was bent over, rooting around in the small refrigerator they’d installed there, sorting through the trays of medications, vials of this and that, several
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