view. It’s up at the top of, what is it called? Beechnut Canyon?”
“Beechwood,” R.J. corrected. “You’re right near the Hollywood sign.”
“I can see it from the shower,” she said. Then she laughed and R.J. felt his whole insides shift around at the sound. He tried to think of something to say to make her laugh again, but she didn’t wait.
“Anyway,” she said. “I’ll probably move in tomorrow.”
“You have a car?”
She didn’t quite laugh this time, but it was close enough. “R.J., for God’s sake, this is L.A. They won’t let you off the airplane without a car.” She paused, as if afraid to tell him. “It’s a convertible,” she finally admitted.
“For Christ’s sake, Casey.”
“I know,” she said. “But I thought I should try for the full experience. I’m really going to do L.A.”
“You want me to recommend a personal trainer, Casey? Send you a tanning machine?”
“I’ll manage without,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll have time. They’re keeping me pretty busy.”
R.J. went tight at the thought of what she was going to be busy doing—the remake. He didn’t say anything.
“We start shooting next week,” Casey went on. “And, oh my God.”
R.J. struggled for control and won. “What?”
“R.J., you wouldn’t believe these people.”
“Yes, I would. I told you.”
She laughed. “I always thought you were exaggerating, but good lord. It’s like a cartoon, like some kind of wild parody about Hollywood.”
“It’s always like that,” he told her.
“Anyway, maybe it’ll settle down when we start shooting.”
“No, it won’t. It gets worse, and so do the people. And don’t go in to any of the star’s trailers when you’re on the set.”
She laughed again. R.J.’s heart pounded. “I was on the set today, R.J. I saw those trailers.” A long pause. “Oh. My. God,” she said.
“You liked ’em, huh?”
“R.J., if you take a wicked, spoiled-rotten Cub Scout and show him a copy of Playboy from 1964 he might come up with one of these trailers.”
“That’s a pretty good description of a star actor,” R.J. said. “A wicked, spoiled-rotten Cub Scout.”
“Yes,” Casey said, suddenly sounding cool again. “I met the star today. Alec Harris.”
“Who?”
“You’ve never heard of Alec Harris, R.J.? Good lord, he was on TV practically forever, that lifeguard show.”
“Holy shit,” R.J. said. “That guy with no shirt? He’s the fucking star?”
“Yes.”
“Holy shit.”
“It gets worse,” she said. “The female lead is Maggie DeSoto.”
R.J. had heard of her. He was stunned into silence. Maggie DeSoto had been a porn star. She crossed over into singing punk rock, and parlayed a couple of rock videos into a movie career. But her assets had stayed the same since the beginning. She could only act with her clothes off.
“They’re—not exactly, um, anything like your parents, R.J.,” Casey said apologetically.
“They’re not even my species. Jesus Christ, Casey.” It was worse than he had even imagined.
“And of course they hate each other,” Casey said. The hidden laugh was back in her voice.
But all R.J. could manage was another feeble, “Jesus Christ.”
As if she could tell how much R.J. was bothered, Casey let the conversation drift to an end. “Anyway, you need your beauty sleep. I’ll call you when I have a phone. When I can,” she said. “I guess it gets pretty busy now.”
“Yeah,” R.J. said. “It sure does.” He felt drained, completely depressed—by her news of the casting and now by the fact that she was about to hang up. He wanted her more than ever, could almost feel her velvet skin under his hand, almost smell her hair. “Casey—”
“You take care of yourself, R.J. Keep your skirts dry.”
“I will. And listen—”
“Bye,” she said with a kissing sound. And she was gone.
R.J. found it impossible to get back to sleep. He didn’t even try. He sat in bed for a long time,
“Beechwood,” R.J. corrected. “You’re right near the Hollywood sign.”
“I can see it from the shower,” she said. Then she laughed and R.J. felt his whole insides shift around at the sound. He tried to think of something to say to make her laugh again, but she didn’t wait.
“Anyway,” she said. “I’ll probably move in tomorrow.”
“You have a car?”
She didn’t quite laugh this time, but it was close enough. “R.J., for God’s sake, this is L.A. They won’t let you off the airplane without a car.” She paused, as if afraid to tell him. “It’s a convertible,” she finally admitted.
“For Christ’s sake, Casey.”
“I know,” she said. “But I thought I should try for the full experience. I’m really going to do L.A.”
“You want me to recommend a personal trainer, Casey? Send you a tanning machine?”
“I’ll manage without,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll have time. They’re keeping me pretty busy.”
R.J. went tight at the thought of what she was going to be busy doing—the remake. He didn’t say anything.
“We start shooting next week,” Casey went on. “And, oh my God.”
R.J. struggled for control and won. “What?”
“R.J., you wouldn’t believe these people.”
“Yes, I would. I told you.”
She laughed. “I always thought you were exaggerating, but good lord. It’s like a cartoon, like some kind of wild parody about Hollywood.”
“It’s always like that,” he told her.
“Anyway, maybe it’ll settle down when we start shooting.”
“No, it won’t. It gets worse, and so do the people. And don’t go in to any of the star’s trailers when you’re on the set.”
She laughed again. R.J.’s heart pounded. “I was on the set today, R.J. I saw those trailers.” A long pause. “Oh. My. God,” she said.
“You liked ’em, huh?”
“R.J., if you take a wicked, spoiled-rotten Cub Scout and show him a copy of Playboy from 1964 he might come up with one of these trailers.”
“That’s a pretty good description of a star actor,” R.J. said. “A wicked, spoiled-rotten Cub Scout.”
“Yes,” Casey said, suddenly sounding cool again. “I met the star today. Alec Harris.”
“Who?”
“You’ve never heard of Alec Harris, R.J.? Good lord, he was on TV practically forever, that lifeguard show.”
“Holy shit,” R.J. said. “That guy with no shirt? He’s the fucking star?”
“Yes.”
“Holy shit.”
“It gets worse,” she said. “The female lead is Maggie DeSoto.”
R.J. had heard of her. He was stunned into silence. Maggie DeSoto had been a porn star. She crossed over into singing punk rock, and parlayed a couple of rock videos into a movie career. But her assets had stayed the same since the beginning. She could only act with her clothes off.
“They’re—not exactly, um, anything like your parents, R.J.,” Casey said apologetically.
“They’re not even my species. Jesus Christ, Casey.” It was worse than he had even imagined.
“And of course they hate each other,” Casey said. The hidden laugh was back in her voice.
But all R.J. could manage was another feeble, “Jesus Christ.”
As if she could tell how much R.J. was bothered, Casey let the conversation drift to an end. “Anyway, you need your beauty sleep. I’ll call you when I have a phone. When I can,” she said. “I guess it gets pretty busy now.”
“Yeah,” R.J. said. “It sure does.” He felt drained, completely depressed—by her news of the casting and now by the fact that she was about to hang up. He wanted her more than ever, could almost feel her velvet skin under his hand, almost smell her hair. “Casey—”
“You take care of yourself, R.J. Keep your skirts dry.”
“I will. And listen—”
“Bye,” she said with a kissing sound. And she was gone.
R.J. found it impossible to get back to sleep. He didn’t even try. He sat in bed for a long time,
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