cb.coldheart canyon-第71节

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　 〃Yeah。　Well。　Okay。　But　it's　still　weird。　You　know；　you　used　to　be　somebody　I　idolized。〃
　 〃With　a　heavy　emphasis　on　the　used　to　be；〃　Todd　said；　opening　one　eye　and　looking　at　her。
　 〃Don't　be　so　sensitive。〃
　 〃No。　I　get　the　message。　It　was　the　same　when　I　met　Paul　Newman；　in　the　flesh；〃　He　closed　his　eye　again。　〃I　always　used　to　think　he　was　the　coolest　of　all　the　cool　guys。　He　had　those　ice…blue　eyes；　and　that　easy　way　of。。。〃　his　words　were　getting　slower；　dreamier　〃。。。walking　into　a　room。。。and　I　used　to　think。。。when　I'm　famous。。。〃　The　words　trailed　away。
　 〃Todd？〃
　 He　opened　his　eyes　a　fraction　and　looked　at　her　between　the　lashes。　〃What　was　I　saying？〃
　 〃Never　mind；〃　she　said　to　him；　sitting　on　the　bed。　〃Go　to　sleep。〃
　 〃No；　tell　me。　What　was　I　saying？〃
　 〃How　much　you　wanted　to　be　like　Paul　Newman。〃
　 〃Oh　yeah。　I　just　used　to　practice　my　Newman　act　for　hours　on　end。　The　way　everything　he　did　was　so　relaxed。　Sometimes　he　looked　so　relaxed　you　couldn't　believe　he　was　acting　at　all。　It　looked　so。。。easy。。。〃
　 While　he　talked　Tammy　took　off　her　own　shoes　（her　feet　were　filthy；　and　ached；　but　she　didn't　have　the　strength　to　get　into　a　shower）；　and　then　lay　down　beside　Todd。　He　didn't　even　seem　to　realize　she　was　there　beside　him。　His　monologue　continued；　though　it　became　less　coherent；　as　sleep　steadily　made　his　tongue　more　sluggish。
　 〃When　I　met　him。。。finally　met　him。。。he　was。。。so。。。small。。。〃
　 His　conclusion　reached；　he　began　to　snore　gently。
　 Tammy　sat　up　on　her　elbows　and　looked　at　him；　lying　there；　wondering　how　she　would　have　felt　if　she'd　been　told　a　few　days　ago　that　she'd　be　sharing　a　bed　with　Todd　Pickett。　It　would　have　made　her　heart　jump　a　beat　to　even　contemplate　the　possibility。　And　yet　here　she　was；　lying　down　beside　him；　and　she　felt　nothing；　nothing　except　a　vague　irritation　that　she　was　not　going　to　get　a　fair　share　of　the　bed　with　him　sprawled　out　over　it。　Oh　well；　she　had　no　choice。　She　could　either　sleep　on　the　bed　with　Mr。　Heart…throb；　or　take　the　floor。
　 She　closed　her　eyes。
　 She　was　exhausted：　sleep　came　in　a　matter　of　moments。　There　were　no　dreams。
　
　
　THREE
　 While　the　two　mismatched　adventurers　slept　in　the　subterranean　murk　of　Room　131　in　the　Wilshire　Plaza　Hotel；　a　sleep　too　deep　to　be　called　fortable；　too　close　to　death；　in　fact…the　city　of　Los　Angeles　got　up　and　went　about　its　daily　business。　There　was　profit　to　be　made。　There　were　movies　being　shot　all　over　the　city。　Joyless　little　pornos　being　made　in　ratty　motels；　witless　spectacles　with　budgets　that　could　have　supported　small　nations　made　on　the　soundstages　of　Culver　City　and　Burbank；　penniless　independent　films　about　the　lives　of　hustlers；　whores　and　penniless　film…makers　shot　wherever　a　room　could　be　found　and　the　actors　assembled。　Some　would　go　onto　glory；　even　the　pornos　had　their　nights　of　prize…giving　now；　when　the　lucky　lady　voted　Best　Cock…Sucker　was　called　to　the　podium　to　humbly　thank　her　agent；　her　mother　and　Jesus　Christ。
　 But　the　fictions；　whether　sex　or　science…fiction；　were　not　the　only　dramas　that　would　be　played　out　today。　This　was　a　city　that　made　its　profit　by　selling　dreams；　not　least　of　itself；　and　so　every　day　young　hopefuls　arrived　by　bus　and　by　plane　to　try　their　luck。　And　every　day　a　few　of　those　dreamers；　having　been　here　a　few　months　（sometimes　a　few　years）　realized　that　their　place　in　the　food　chain　of　fame　was　lower　than　a　piece　of　week…old　sushi。　It　was　not　going　to　happen　for　them：　they　weren't　going　to　be　the　next　Meryl　Streep；　the　next　Todd　Pickett；　the　next　Jim　Carrey。　They'd　have　to　wait　another　lifetime　for　their　slice　of　fame；　or　the　lifetime　after　that；　or　the　lifetime　after　that。　And　for　some；　it　wasn't　news　they　could　bear　to　take　home　with　them。　Better　to　buy　a　gun　（as　Ryan　Tyler；　real　name　Norman　Miles；　did　that　morning）　and　go　back　to　your　one　room　apartment　and　blow　out　your　brains。　He'd　had　two　lines　in　one　of　the　Lethal　Weapon　movies；　which　he'd　told　everyone　in　Stockholm；　Ohio；　was　the　beginning　of　a　great　career。　But　the　lines　had　been　cut；　and　for　some　reason　he'd　never　caught　a　director's　eye　ever　again。　Not　once　in　six　years；　since　he'd　had　those　two　lines；　had　he　been　called　back　for　an　audition。　The　bullet　was　kinder　than　the　silent　phone。　His　death　didn't　make　the　news。
　 The　suicide　of　one　Rod　McCloud　did；　but　only　because　he'd　thrown　himself　off　a　bridge　onto　the　405　and　brought　the　morning　traffic　in　both　directions　to　a　halt　for　an　hour。　McCloud　had　actually　won　an　Oscar；　he'd　been　the　co…recipient　（with　four　other　producers）　of　the　coveted　little　icon　fourteen　years　earlier。　There　hadn't　been　time　for　him　to　reach　the　microphone　and　thank　his　agent　and　Jesus　Christ；　the　orchestra　had　started　playing　the　exit　music　before　the　man　in　front　of　him　had　finished　giving　his　thanks；　then　it　was　too　late。
　 At　noon；　another　suicide　was　discovered；　that　of　a　man　who；　unlike　McCloud…who　had　been　sixty…one…was　still　at　the　beginning　of　his　life。　Two　years　ago　Justin　Thaw　had　been　named　by　Vanity　Fair　the　Most　Powerful　Agent　In　LA　Under　Twenty…Five　（he　was　twenty…two　at　the　time）；　and　had　been　groomed　by　the　greatest　of　the　city's　agent…deities　as　the　inheritor　of　his　chair；　made　a　noose　and　hanged　himself　in　his　brother's　garage；　leaving　a　suicide　letter　that　was　arranged　as　a　series　of　bullet…points　（in　the　style　his　ex…boss　had　taught　him）；　for　maximum　clarity。　He　could　no　longer　fight　his　addiction；　he　said；　he　was　too　tired　of　feeling　as　though　he　was　a　failure；　just　because　he　was　hooked　on　heroin。　He　was　sorry　for　all　the　heartless　things　he'd　said　and　done　to　those　he　loved；　it　had　been　the　drug　doing；　the　drug　saying：　but　it　was　he　who　was　sorry；　and　he　who　was　glad　to　be　leaving　today；　because　life　wasn't　worth　the　effort　anymore。　He　was　wearing　the　ten　thousand　dollar　suit　he'd　had　made　for　himself　in　Milan；　the　shoes　he'd　purchased　in　Rome；　and　（so　as　not　to　make　as　much　of　a　mess　of　his　death　as　he　had　of　his　life）　a　pair　of　adult　diapers。
　 The　news　of　Justin's　death　would　spread　quickly；　and　a　few　executives'　doors　would　be　closed　for　a　while；　giving　the　man　behind　them　a　moment　to　remember　the　occasions　they'd　got　high　with　Justin；　and　wonder　whether　it　wasn't　time　they　asked　for　help　from　Narcotics　Anonymous。　Then　the　phones　from　their　powerful　contemporaries　started　to　ring　again；　and　the　pressure　of　the　day　meant　that　meditation　had　to　be　put　off　for　a　while；　they　took　a　snort　or　two　of　coke　put　Justin　out　of　their　minds；　and　got　on　with　the　deal…making。　They　could　think　about　him　again　at　the　funeral。
　 Speaking　of　which：　the　ashes　of　one　Jennifer　Scarscella　were　on　a　Chicago…bound　plane　that　afternoon；　headed　for　interment　in　the　city　of　her　birth。　Jennifer　had　died　nine　months　ago；　but　her　body　had　only　recently　been　found　and　identified　in　the　LA　Morgue。　She　had　left　home　seven　years　before；　without　telling　her　parents　where　she　was　headed；　though　it　wouldn't　have　been　hard　for　the　Scarscellas　to　figure　out　that　their　daughter　had　left　to　try　her　luck　in　Tinseltown：　all　she'd　ever　wanted　to　do　was　be　a　movie　star。　She　had　been　murdered　by　her　boyfriend；　because　she'd　refused；　he　said；　to　take　a　role　in　an　X…rated　movie。　He　was　now　in　jail；　and　Jennifer　was　going　home；　having　kept　her　ambitions　high；　and　died　for　doing　so。
　 And　so　the　day　went　on；　the　shadows　of　the　city　lengthening　as　the　sun　began　to　drop　from　its　high…point　at　noon。
　 At　a　little　after　four；　there　was　a　crisis　at　Warner's；　when　a　set　under　construction　caught　fire；　gutting　an　entire　sound　stage；　and　badly　damaging　two　adjacent　sound　stages。　Nobody　was　killed；　but　there　were　still　grim　faces　in　the　boardroom　that　afternoon。　Insurance　would　cover　the　reconstruction　of　the　stages；　but　the　set　had　been　built　for　the　Warner's　Christmas　offering　Dark　Justice。　With　an　elaborate　post…production　schedule　for　the　picture　that　required　the　main　shoot　to　be　over　in　a　month's　time；　things　looked　bad。　There　had　been　a　great　deal　of　'creative　debate'　about　the　script；　which　had　no　less　than　fourteen　writers　presently　attached　to　it。　Arbitration　by　the　Writer's　Guild　would　thin　those　numbers；　but　nothing　would　make　the　calculation　look　any　better　if　the　picture　missed　its　Christmas　release　date；　which　it　now　looked　likely　to　do。　Two　executives　received　calls　from　their　superiors　in　New　York；　pointing　out　that　if　they　hadn't　warred　so　much　about　the　script　the　picture　would　have　been　shot　by　now　and　the　agonizingly　slow　post…production　underway。　Instead　they　had　a　smoking　shell　of　a　building　where　the　big　scenes　were　to　have　been　shot；　starting　in　two　days。　There　was　a　fiscal　disaster　in　the　offing；　and　certain　people　should　be　ready　to　hand　in　their　resignations　before　they　were　embarrassed　into　leaving　by　the　imminent　and　unflattering　analysis　as　to　why　ninety　pages　of　dialogue　about　a　man　who　dressed　up　as　a　jaguar　to　fight　the　villains　of　some　fictional　metropolis　could　not　have　been　agreed　on　earlier；　when　there　was　four　and　a　half　million　dollars'　worth　of　writing　talent　on　the　job。　The　observation　that　'we're　not　making　fucking　Citizen　Kane　here'　dropped　from　several　mouths　that　day；　more　often　than　not　from　men　who　had　never　seen　Kane；　nor　would　have　cared　for　it　ev