Shallow Graves

5

Alan Lefkowitz sat in his huge, completely immaculate office, rocking back and forth in a leather desk chair, and looked out the windows, which were also huge and completely immaculate. Beneath him the traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard flowed past Century City. His eyes were on this wide road, full of nice cars, but his thoughts were solely focused on Upstate New York.

President and principal shareholder of Big Mountain Studios, Lefkowitz, 52, put in at least ten sweaty hours a day working on his film projects. A law school graduate, a successful former agent, he took continuing education classes at UCLA and USC in accounting and finance-at an age when many of his friends (well, this was Hollywood; call them colleagues), also producers, were delegating the hard work to underlings and spending mucho time engaged in the "Development" work (that is: thinking in Palm Springs and drinking at the Beverly Hills Hotel).

Also on the asset side of the balance sheet: Lefkowitz had integrity. He'd pretty much resisted Hollywood's strongest gravity, which pulled producers toward teenage comedies, buddy cop movies, special effects-fat science fiction and horror films. His own orbit wasn't as lofty as his favorite directors, Bergman, Fassbinder, Kurosawa and Truffaut, but in his heart he wanted to make quality films.

With film schools pumping out students who learned cinema (not, no, never movies), there was no lack of independent directors in the U.S. making wonderful, small, serious flicks. But Lefkowitz's particular talent was that he worked within the system. His films were mostly financed, and wholly distributed, by major studios, one of which he presently had a five-movie housekeeping deal with (this being one of the better gold rings in contemporary movieland). Balls, a temper and an ability to convince people that he had vision had managed to get him into bed with this huge entertainment conglomerate, which was putting up 80 percent of the money for any five pictures he wished to produce.

Good muscle tone, a beach permit for his Mercedes, and a housekeeping deal for five flicks. It didn't get much better than this. But, although he could legitimately be spending this lunch hour reflecting on his good fortune, what Lefkowitz was in fact obsessing about was New York, the Empire State, while he swung back and forth in a three-thousand-dollar leather chair.

The reason for this meditation sat in front of him on his desk (which was huge but not at all immaculate): a battered, red-covered script, marred with doodles and numbers and words. It was the first flick in the five-movie deal. A dark and lyrical film called To Sleep in a Shallow Grave. A picture that had no buddies, no car chases, no wisecracking teenagers, no karate fights, and not a single actor magically turned into a dog, baby or person of the opposite sex.

The property had had a strange history. The film was in turnaround-another studio had bought the script and started production. A month later, though, it had been canceled. Lefkowitz, who'd lusted to do the film ever since he'd read the book it was based on years before, immediately snatched up the rights. But buying a turn-around property meant paying a premium; he had not only to pay for the script itself but he also had to reimburse the first studio for its production expenses. So what should have been a small art film became overnight a big-budget monster.

Then a famous rule in Hollywood proved true: If anybody wants it, everybody wants it. Last week, two other studios started bidding for the film.

Loyalty in Hollywood is a moving target and Lefkowitz's studio would have sold the property out from underneath him in a minute, except that under his contract he had an absolute right to make the movie.

Absolute, that is, provided the film met a complicated series of production deadlines. It now seemed there was a serious possibility that these deadlines might be missed. Already the company was two weeks behind schedule and Lefkowitz knew that the studio lawyers had notified the production execs that if principal photography didn't begin in three weeks, all bets were off. Lefkowitz would be in breach, and Shallow Grave would disappear from his company faster than a gold chain on the streets of New York.

Lefkowitz was reflecting on this when the assistant producer, a handsome, intense thirty-year-old, walked through the door.

Since he'd been working for Lefkowitz, the young man, who'd been so eager and talked so flippantly about ball-busting when he'd accepted the job, didn't look so young anymore. He definitely wasn't as eager. And the only balls he thought about regularly were his own.

"He's calling at three," the AP announced.

Lefkowitz examined his Oyster Perpetual. Five minutes. "Tell me what happened."

The assistant producer began, "Marty-"

"Who's Marty?"

"Jacobs. Pellam's assistant."

"Okay."

"He was killed, and-"

"Jesus."

"Pellam ended up in the hospital. I'm not sure but the way the sheriff explained it they seem to be separate accidents."

"What happened to Marty?"

"The car blew up."

"Jesus. What about his family?"

"The sheriff called and he told them. I made a call for your office. You don't have to do anything, but-"

Lefkowitz said, "We'll send flowers. You know that florist, the one I mean?"

"Will do."

"I'll write a note too. How's Pellam?"

"I'm not sure. All I know is I got a message saying that he was going to be calling in at three."

"We should get mobiles in all the honey wagons. It's crazy we don't. Look into that, okay?"

"Youwant, yougot."

"Any chance we'll get sued?"

"By who?"

"Marty's family?"

"I don't know… But there's something I've got to tell you, Alan. It gets kind of worse."

"How could it get worse?"

"The mayor of the town where it happened? Cleary? He called. Crazy man. I'm talking PMS. They won't issue permits."

"Oh, Christ in a tree. Oh, Christ."

"It's like a real small town. They found the stuff-"

"What stuff?"

"Aw, Marty had a little grass on him. They said some crack too, but I don't think-"

"Brother," Lefkowitz whispered. He looked out at the huge, immaculate highway. He closed his eyes. "Why, why, why?…" He spun around and faced the AP. "Any chance we can buy our way in?"

"I tried. Thousands. I practically gave him head."

"And?"

The AP swallowed. "He called me a ghoul. Then he called me a prick. Then he hung up on me. It's cratered, Alan. The whole's project's cratered."

Lefkowitz felt numb. A moment passed. Finally he asked, "Pellam's okay, though?"

The phone rang. Both men looked at their watches. It was three. The AP said, "Why don't you ask him?"

Pellam leaned his head against the glass of the phone booth. Cleary still had booths with squeaky, two-panel doors. He looked at two initials carved into the aluminum; otherwise there was no graffiti. One set of initials looked like JP. He listened to the buzz of the phone ringing. He felt the vibration of the healing skin under the bandage on his temple.

Alan Lefkowitz came on the phone himself, something he had never done. No secretary. No AP. Just the soft voice of a tanned, fit, eccentric, multimillionaire producer.

"John, how are you? What happened?"

He sensed some real sympathy.

"Fine, Lefty. I'm okay." Pellam then told him in general terms about the accidents-Meg's running into him, Marty's death.

Lefkowitz said, "The permits. What happened?"

"Permits? What about them?" Pellam was squinting. No, it wasn't JP written on the phone booth wall. It was JD. Below that, in marker: Tigers, they're number one!!! One thing about the country: teenagers were literate. In Manhattan he'd seen a similar sign. Debbo and Ki there the best!

"They're not issuing permits. The mayor, or somebody. Didn't anybody tell you?"

Pellam felt the shock. He burned with a wave of sudden fever. A week's work, wasted.

Marty's death, wasted.

"I didn't hear. Did they say why?"

Lefkowitz said, "They found some shit on him. I don't know, pot or something. You guys…"

"Alan, Marty wasn't smoking when he died. I don't know what happened but it wasn't that. I found his stash. It hadn't been opened."

"Whatever… You know I don't have any choice."

"It wasn't Marty's fault." Pellam focused outside the glass and found he was staring directly into the window of Dutchess County Realty. The awning was down and the lights inside were on. There was nobody in the office.

"Well, I'm sorry, John. But you understand."

"Sure." Then it occurred to Pellam that there were two conversations going at once. He said, "Actually, no, Alan, I don't understand. What're you talking about?"

"I've got to let you go."

"Alan, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying you're fired, John."

"What?" Just like that?

"I thought that little incident a few years ago would have taught you a lesson."

In a low voice Pellam said, "What the hell do you mean by that?"

"I'm back at square one, thanks to you and Marty."

"I'm telling you Marty was murdered. It was a setup."

Lefkowitz seemed distracted. "Get the wagon to the New York office. We'll have your check waiting for you."

"Just-"

Lefkowitz said, "Sorry, John. I got no room for mistakes with this project."

He hung up.

"-like that?"

The first thing Meg Torrens did when she woke up: she put her two-carat diamond ring on her index finger then lay back in bed for fifteen minutes and tried to think about nothing.

It was a form of meditation she'd read about somewhere. It cleared your mind, made you healthier, relaxed you, made you more creative. It didn't always work, but even if not, the discipline required-working with your brain like an unruly puppy-seemed helpful. Marginally helpful. Mademoiselle helpful. Better Homes & Gardens helpful.

Beside her, Keith stirred slightly. His breathing was slow.

She glanced at him, closed her eyes.

Thinking about nothing.

A bird trilled in the distance, a truck shifted gears on the grade of Lampton Road.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

An instant before the alarm rang, she sensed it in her mind. An electronic Bzzzzt. Meg opened her eyes and just as the Seiko went off, reached over to tap the off button. She patted Keith on his solid shoulders. He was ten years older than Meg and had some serious businessman fat on him. But she didn't mind that. His legs and butt were thin; you could get away with a lot of belly if everything else stayed in line. He had a broad, handsome face, the face of an actor who played kindly merchants and railroad owners. His hair was dense and unruly and he forced it into shape with spray and split it with a ruler-straight part. Meg regularly talked him out of dye; she thought salt-and-pepper was sexy.

Keith reached up and squeezed her hand, muttering something. She moved closer to him, smelling the warm body sleep scent puff out from under the bellows of the sheet and comforter.

The tip-off was his wristwatch.

Keith groggily pulled the Rolex off his wrist and dropped it heavily on the bedside table. When he took off the watch she knew what was coming.

His hands began to wander.

"Honey…" she said, something of a protest. But let herself be pulled over to him.

They kissed. She pulled off the violet Victoria's Secret teddy he'd bought for her several months ago, offering the box shyly, as if he was worried she'd be offended.

The familiar routine began. He kissed her long, on her mouth, her chin, working downward. He lingered at her neck, taking her S-link chain in his mouth. He often did this and she wondered if the gold had a taste that he liked. Then his lips found her collarbone and he moved down toward her breasts and, slowly, slowly, to her contracted nipples.

When they made love Keith was energetic, simple, effective.

Meg was ready for him. Although from time to time she let her hands explore herself when she was taking a shower she hadn't done so since the last time they'd made love, a week ago. So now, even though it was morning, even though she wanted to bathe first, to brush her teeth, even though she didn't feel beautiful, even though she had to wake Sam in the next few minutes to get him moving in time for his schoolbus-despite all that, she felt the low kick inside her.

Meg smiled, kissed his chest and nipples, rolled him over on his back. She stroked him then moved down his belly. She felt her own passion swell when he began to grow inside her mouth.

This is what their romantic life had become-usually mornings, usually spontaneous. And Meg Torrens had no real complaints about it. True, they weren't youthfully passionate. But who is, after ten years of marriage? The compensation was that neither of them demanded too much from the other. Sex was comfortable, like browsing through antique stores or trying out new recipes. Diverting pleasures. Silent and a little anonymous. They'd learned not to intrude on each other's fantasies.

He nearly came and he held her head still. Then he sat up, rolled her over and kissed her breasts again, moved down. Licked her navel. He moved further down her trim body.

After five minutes she shuddered violently under the clever effort of his tongue and fingers. She lay gasping and smiling in the near darkness, trying to cement the moment.

Keith waited a gallant minute or two before mounting her. She held him fiercely and she moaned the way she knew he liked but was too shy to ask her for. She bit his ear. She dug nails into his back. She pressed her face against his soft, gray hair, through which a residue of sweat was building.

She curled her legs around him, she moaned again. Then, suddenly, her eyes snapped open.

The intrusion was like a slap. A spray of cold water.

No!

The memory of the sound wouldn't go away.

Bzzzzt.

She couldn't place it, but it intruded unrelentingly. It was spoiling the entire moment. She hated it.

No, no, go away, please.

Then, she remembered. At the same instant Keith gripped her furiously and squeezed the air from her lungs. She felt the contractions and the fierce tensing of his hips.

That was the intrusion-a sound.

Playing in her mind, over and over, was the satisfying whir of the film as it shot out of the man's Polaroid camera. She pictured his narrow face, she heard his voice. She saw the glossy dark scar. A machine gun. An Oldsmobile. You've lived here how long?

Keith rolled off. She pressed her legs together tightly and stretched. They lay together for five minutes. (Nothing, nothing, think about nothing!) Then slowly Meg sat up. A local? she thought angrily. He thought I was a local?

Who'd lived here ten years?

"Love you," Keith said.

"Me too."

She sat for a moment then saw her face in the mirror. A confused, frightened look in her eyes. She smiled at her husband and forced all thoughts of the location scout out of her mind. She swung out of bed and walked into the hall.

The bathroom was carpeted in black shag. The shower curtain was black with red roses on it and the walls were pink. (Meg couldn't decide whether the decor was eighteenth-century country or Victorian bordello.) She shook her head and tossed her light blonde hair with her fingers. It stuck out wildly in all directions from yesterday's spray and the electric curlers she set it with. It would take half an hour of diligent work to turn herself into a blond, bouffanted, real estate agent.

She fixated on the mirror. Her lips had always bothered her. They were nearly flat planes and she used two subtly different shades of lipstick to give them dimension. And, when she remembered, she would keep the bottom lip curled forward slightly. This tended to make her look more pouty than sensuous, but, in her experience, men liked pouting women as much as sexy ones.

Out of the shower, drying her thin legs and waist, Meg stepped on the scale automatically, though she'd never weighed a pound over 105 since a month after Sam was born. She combed her hair straight, pulled on her robe.

She called down the hall, "Sam, let's go, honey."

In the bedroom Keith was still in bed. He seemed asleep. As she passed he groped playfully for her butt. She slapped his hand gently then tugged at his arm. "Up, up!" she called. "The world awaits."

He groaned.

Meg walked down the stairs. She didn't put on her slippers until she stepped into the kitchen. She liked the touch of the carpet on her feet in the morning.

Fifteen minutes later, rolls were warm, coffee was hot. Meg was sipping from a heavy mug and wondering where they got the crazy names for kids' breakfast cereal when Sam came thumping down the stairs. He was his father's son in many ways. In the morning he was groggy, puffy faced, his sandy hair going at odd angles. But unlike Keith (a pudgy boy forty years ago, a pudgy man now), Sam was lean and tall.

And brilliant. This gift was from his father. If Meg had said prayers, she would have thanked the generic all-powerful spirit she nearly believed in that Sam had received the gene for Keith's brains, not hers.

Meg Torrens, with two years' community college, was going to be the mother of Samuel K. Torrens, Ph.D., cum laude.

Keith came down the stairs slowly, wearing knife-crease gray slacks, a white dress shirt, a green-and-black striped tie.

She poured coffee. He said, "Thanks, darling," and started working on a sweetroll.

They paid the premium for the New York Times but Keith preferred the Cleary Leader, which if you read it regularly would really scare the hell out of you, and make you think that Dutchess County was filled with nothing but murderers, child molesters and the mournful classmates of teenagers who'd driven the family car into trains while tanked up on their father's vodka. Today was Tuesday, publication day, and he read the thin paper hungrily, boning up on local gossip.

"Hey, Mom," Sam said, sitting forward on his chair, making valleys in his cereal. "What happens when a duck flies upside down?"

Meg knew that success as a mother, just like success as a politician, is largely dependent on cheerful insincerity. She turned to him, thought a moment, then frowned. "I have no idea. What?"

"He quacks up!" He laughed. Meg did too and wiped a bit of Smurf off his cheek. Keith grunted a laugh and ruffled the boy's hair.

Sam dodged away and shook his hair back into place. "Dad!"

Keith looked at him for a moment, an affectionate gaze, then turned back to the paper. There was a shyness about Keith, even with his wife and son, and he didn't look up as he said, "If I don't have to work, how about going to the game on Saturday?" It was as though he was afraid they'd turn him down. He added, "They're playing…" He looked at Meg. "Who're they playing?"

The high school team's standing and upcoming opponents were pretty much common knowledge in Cleary. Meg said, "No game this weekend, remember? It's the festival. If you're taking time off we can all go."

"Yeah!" said Sam, his voice breaking.

"Sounds good."

Meg said, "Maybe I should enter my apple butter."

Keith said slowly, "Well, sure. You could."

He and Sam looked at each other.

She said, "It wasn't that bad."

"It like tasted good, Mom. It really did."

"Maybe," Keith said delicately, "next time, just some food color."

"Critics." Meg turned to the Times classified real estate section and added up the commissions she would have made last year if she were selling houses in Scarsdale or Greenwich instead of Cleary.

At seven-thirty: the bus arrived and Meg pitched Sam his pro-wrestling lunch box. He hugged her then disappeared out the front door.

Keith said, "That guy ever call the insurance company?"

Meg asked, "What guy?"

"Your accident? That guy with the movie company."

Bzzzt.

"Oh, him. I'd forgotten about him. I don't know. I'll call Jim. Find out."

Keith looked at his watch, muttered, "Damn," and walked quickly up the stairs. He returned ten minutes later; he'd added spit-shined shoes and a navy blazer to his uniform of the day.

They brushed cheeks and he walked out the screen door. She called, "Bye, honey."

Keith said something to her and lifted his hand but she missed his words. They were obscured by a sound that started running through her head again, the whir of the Polaroid, which this time, try though she might, she could not force out of her thoughts.