It was a ridiculous thing to say, though no more so than “I was seeing the sights” about why I’d gone to Santa Monica. But it would have to do for now. I knew that she and her host had different agendas, neither one to my benefit.
Marthe wanted another thing, too: to stop me from listening to the sounds upstairs. Nothing against myself, I didn’t think passion kept her clutching my ears as male and female voices drifted through the ceiling.
“Who is that?” I couldn’t ignore the moving and talking overhead.
“Shh …”
A second-floor door opened, then shut. Through Marthe’s pressing palms, I heard what could only be Troy’s feet slipping, stiffly, down the stairs. He was cursing to himself, quietly, like Popeye.
Then there was a knock at Marthe’s door.
“Legs!” Troy called. “Company’s almost here! Come on, Arm Candy, put a motor on it!”
Marthe’s hands fell away, slowly. One finger remained at my lips. She called back, weakly, “I’ll be right there.”
“Where’s the Angel?” He meant me.
Marthe’s finger pressed a bit harder. “I don’t see him.”
“Well, if you do, tell him to make an appearance.”
There was a pause. Then Troy walked away, cursing again.
Something was about to happen, and I had a strange feeling it wouldn’t be pretty.
“Maybe you don’t want to be here right now,” she whispered.
But it was too late: The front doorbell was ringing.
TROY WAS HAVING A SHINDIG.
Coming through the door were eight or ten of the hottest young male directors in Hollywood. I recognized Lucas Mallomill, a white guy who made faux Hong Kong action films, and Alan Boilerman, who made quirky comedies about dysfunctional families. Most were dressed in indie style—backward caps, flannel shirts—and all arrived as if to a frat party, carrying six-packs of beer, bags of chips, and a raucous ’tude.
“Boy-O!”
This wasn’t their first time at the house. They greeted the older man as they might a reprobate uncle, giving him soul handshakes and pats on the back.
“What’s cooking?” one of them asked, retro-beatnik-style.
“Only spaghetti, and that ain’t ready,” Troy answered, not missing a beat.
“Hey, where’re the chicks?” another wondered.
“That’s my Amish,” Troy used a nickname, chucking the fellow’s chin beard. “We got what you want, don’t worry.”
I had left Marthe’s room and was standing at the back of the crowd. I noticed four women in the living room. They were blondes wearing short glittery dresses and had obviously been surgically enhanced. They waited, patiently, one checking makeup, another her watch. The young men were clearly there to partake in Troy’s Seventies-style fun, which was discouraged in their politically correct age. Thor wandered through the room like a ghost. Marthe was still hiding in her room.
Troy rattled off as many nicknames as he could recall—from Lox Spread to Der Bingle to Shemp—but by his last guest he had wearied. The guy, skinny and bearded, apparently unknown to him, got only Director, which was more a description than a sobriquet.
“And this …” he said, at last, approaching me, “is my newest pal.” I sensed Troy squinting at me behind his huge shades. The best he could come up with was “Clarence Travers,” mixing up the Wonderful Life actor with his role.
The others nodded at me, politely, correctly sensing I wasn’t on the A-list. Seeing their mixed reaction, Troy felt obliged to explain. He made the gesture meaning money, rubbing his thumb and first two fingers.
“He’s providing a bell for me to ring,” he said, and winked.
Since the Clown adventure began, from Abner to Howie to Troy, I had been cast in lots of different roles. A sugar daddy seemed the least likely. I saw polite skepticism on the young directors’ faces.
Clearly, Troy thought this gathering would have networking potential for him. But his guests were, to put it politely, there for their own reasons.
“We should work together,” I heard Troy say to Lucas Mallomill.
“That’s what we’re doing now,” the Hong Kong wannabe replied, clearly yearning to approach the rented girls.
Troy held him there, and whispered something in the young man’s ear. But Mallomill only shrugged, impatiently, saying, “I’m not holding. Ask someone else.”
Then he escaped, leaving Troy looking bereft.
His house, however, looked flush. There were jars of fancy imported olives, expensive fresh cheeses, even a tin of caviar. Champagne bottles sat in ice buckets. It was nothing like the cheap fare that he and his tenants normally consumed. (Last night: Sloppy Joe’s.)
Now his guests obliviously scarfed down the fancy food as they jostled for space next to the women. The large-screen TV had been moved up from the basement; raunchy hip-hop music videos ran on it; some men boogied down with the babes, banging into furniture. Others disappeared into rooms with them. Troy was being treated like a doorman; few did more than glance at him before taking more advantage of his hospitality.
I would have felt sorry for the Boy-O if he hadn’t cast me in a role that exploited me. And if I hadn’t suddenly sensed that this role put me in danger.
One guest hung back, close to the front door. He was different from the other men: older, more subdued, less casually dressed. About forty, he wore a dark suit and his hair was carefully moussed and combed. Troy seemed genuinely surprised to see him. He even removed his glasses and nervously rubbed his deeply ringed eyes.
“I didn’t expect you,” he said.
“Surprise,” the man replied.
