He knew Leo wouldn't understand what he meant, Leo squinting at him now.

"You take all my money, but you're borrowing part of it?"

"At eighteen percent, okay? And don't ask me no more questions, I'm leaving," Chili said.

He picked up the briefcase as he rose from the sofa and Leo came up out of his chair.

"You're saying you want me toloan you the ten grand?" you the ten grand?"

"I'm not asking you, Leo. What I'm saying is I'm gonna pay you back."

"I don't understand."

"You don't have to. Let's leave it at that."

"Yeah, but how're you gonna pay me?"

Chili was moving toward the door. "Don't worry about it."

"I mean you won't know where I am. I don't even know where I'll be."

"I'll find you, Leo. You leave a trail like a f.u.c.kin caterpillar." Chili reached the door and opened it.

Leo saying now, "Wait a minute. What's this eighteen-percent-a-year s.h.i.t? You want to borrow ten, the vig's three bills a week. You hear me?" Chili crossing the hall toward the stairway, shaking his head, Leo yelling after him, "Fifteen for the vig plus the ten, that's twenty-five big ones you go a whole year, buddy! You hear me?"

Chili stopped. He turned around. As he started back he saw Leo's scared look just before he slammed the door shut. Jesus, he was dumb.

17.

He thought Raji's would be a c.o.c.ktail lounge with entertainment, a Hollywood nightspot. It turned out to be a bar with pinball machines and video games making a racket, also a counter where you could buy Raji's T-shirts, in case you wanted to show you had actually come in here. Sometimes it was hard to keep an open mind. Chili, in his pinstripe suit, nice tie, wondered if any regular people came here or just these kids trying to look like heroin addicts. He said to one of them, "How come there's no sign out in front?"

The kid said, "There isn't?"

He said to the kid, "I see they have Yul Brynner in the sidewalk outside."

Part of Hollywood's famous Walk of Fame, the names of 1,800 show-biz celebrities inlaid in stars.

The kid said, "Who's Yul Brynner?"

Chili said to the bartender, a young guy who looked normal, "How come there's no sign out in front?" The bartender said it was down temporarily while they reinforced the building against earthquakes. Chili asked him how come there weren't any barstools? The bartender said it was a stand-up kind of place: A and R guys from the record companies didn't like to sit down, they'd catch a group and then come back upstairs to have their conversation, where you could hear yourself think. He told Chili Guns N' Roses had been signed out of here. Chili said no s.h.i.t and asked if Nicki was around. There were "Nicki" posters by the entrance. The bartender said she was downstairs but wouldn't be on for a couple hours yet.

"You in records?"

"Movies," Chili said.

He had never made it with Nicki or even tried, but she still ought to remember him. The idea, get her to ask him to drop by the house, say h.e.l.lo to Michael and he'd take it from there. Get next to him.Look at me, Michael. See what happens. See what happens.

Chili went downstairs to an empty room with a bar and a few tables, hearing a band tuning up, hitting chords. It reminded him of bands at Momo's cranking up, doing sound checks, setting those dials just right, then blasting off loud enough to blow out the windows and he'd wonder what all that precision adjusting was for. Maybe they said they were reinforcing the place against earthquakes, but it was to keep the rockers from shaking the walls down, and that's why they played in the bas.e.m.e.nt here: the bandstand through an archway in a separate room that was like a cave in there and maybe would hold a hundred people standing up.

There were four guys, three with guitars and a guy on the drums. He didn't see Nicki anywhere, just these four skinny guys, typical rock-and-roll a.s.sholes with all the hair, bare arms tricked out with tattoos and metal bracelets, all of them with that typical bored way they had. Looking over at him now standing in the archway, but too cool to show any interest. Some d.i.c.khead in a suit. Chili stared back at them thinking, Oh, is that right? Any you a.s.sholes want to be in the movies? No chance. They were turned toward each other now, one of them, with wild blond hair sticking out in every direction, talking as the others listened. Now the blond-haired one was looking over this way again, saying, "Chil?" The middle one.

Christ, it was Nicole, Nicki. They all looked like girls-that's why he thought she was a guy.

"Nicki? How you doing?"

He should've spotted her, the skinny white arms, no tattoos. Nicki handed her guitar that had a big bull's-eye painted on it to one of the guys and was coming over now, Nicki in black jeans that were like tights on her and, Christ, big work boots, smiling at him. Chili put his arms out as she raised hers, high, and saw dark hair under there in the sleeveless T-shirt, Nicki saying, "Chili, Jesus!" glad to see him and it was a nice surprise, knowing she meant it. Now she was in his arms, that slender body tight against him, arms around his neck giving him a hug, hanging on, while he kept thinking of her armpits, the dark tufts under there like a guy's, though she certainly felt like a girl. Nicki let go but kept grinning at him, saying, "I don't believe this." Then saying over her shoulder to the guys, "I was right, it's Chili, from Miami. He's a f.u.c.king gangster!"

The way they were looking at him now-he didn't mind her saying it.

"That's your new band, huh? They as good as the one you used to have?"

Nicki said, "What, at Momo's? Come on, that was techno-disco p.u.s.s.y rock. These guysplay. " She took him by the arm over to a table, telling how she met them in the parking lot of the Guitar Center, standing there with their Marshall stacks, and couldn't believe her luck 'cause these kids could play speed riffs as good as- "You know the kind Van Halen did on 'Eruption' and every metal freak in the world copied? ... No, you don't. What am I talking about? Eight years ago you were still into Dion and the Belmonts, all that doo-wop s.h.i.t." " She took him by the arm over to a table, telling how she met them in the parking lot of the Guitar Center, standing there with their Marshall stacks, and couldn't believe her luck 'cause these kids could play speed riffs as good as- "You know the kind Van Halen did on 'Eruption' and every metal freak in the world copied? ... No, you don't. What am I talking about? Eight years ago you were still into Dion and the Belmonts, all that doo-wop s.h.i.t."

" 'I'm just a lonely teenager,' " Chili said.

"Right, and 'I Wonder Why.' Who do you listen to now?"

"Guns N' Roses, different ones." He had to think fast. "Aerosmith, Led Zeppelin ..."

"You're lying. Aerosmith, that's who I was listening to in Miami, way back when. I'll bet you're a Deadhead, you dig that California acid Muzak."

"Let's have a cigarette," Chili said, sitting at the table with her now. "I wasn't sure you'd recognize me."

"You kidding? You're the only guy at Momo's didn't try to jump me."

"It crossed my mind a few times."

"Yeah, but you didn't make a big deal about it, like Tommy. I had to beat him off with a stick." She reached across the table to put her hand on his. "What're youdoing here anyway?" here anyway?"

"I'm making a movie."

"Come on-"

"And you live with a movie star."

"Michael, yeah." She didn't sound too happy about it. She didn't sound unhappy either. Glancing at her watch, Nicki said, "He's gonna stop by. You want to meet him?"

Just like that.

"Yeah, I wouldn't mind."

"Michael won't stay for the performance, too many people. Crowds scare the s.h.i.t out of him, like he's afraid he'll get mobbed."

"Sure, the guy's a star. Not only that, he can act."

"I know," Nicki said, "he's incredible. His new one,Elba ? It isn't out yet-I caught some of the dailies when they were shooting. You see Michael, he ? It isn't out yet-I caught some of the dailies when they were shooting. You see Michael, heis Napoleon. He doesn't play him, I mean he Napoleon. He doesn't play him, I mean heis this f.u.c.king military genius, man, this little guy ..." She drew on her cigarette looking toward the bandstand. "I have to get back." this f.u.c.king military genius, man, this little guy ..." She drew on her cigarette looking toward the bandstand. "I have to get back."

"How'd you meet him?"

"At a performance. I was with a metal group, Roadkill? They're still around. They try to sound like Metallica, straight-ahead rock with a lot of head banging. I had to f.u.c.king sing and throw my hair at the same time, only it was shorter then so I had to wear extensions. I remember thinking- this was about a year and a half ago-if only I was a light-skinned black chick I could make it on my voice, not have to do this s.h.i.t."

"Michael saw you perform ..."

"I guess he was in a particular mode at the time." Nicki tapped her cigarette over the ashtray, maybe giving it some thought. "Sees me up there thrashing, this chick in geekwear, s.h.i.tkickers, hair under my arms ... He still won't let me shave. I guess I fill some need. He works, I work and in between we kick back. We do drugs, but not all the time. I wouldn't call either of us toxic. We play tennis, we have a screening room, a satellite dish, twelve TV sets, seventeen phones, a houseman, maids, a laundress, gardeners, a guy who comes twice a week to check out the cars ... But where am I really? Down in a bas.e.m.e.nt with a sticky floor and three guys barely out of Hollywood High. I feel like I'm their mother."

"Why don't you get married?"

"You mean to Michael? I don't think I would even if he asked me."

"Why not?"

"What's the point? It's not like, wow, I'd be making it, something I've always wanted. You get married, then what? All it does is f.u.c.k up your life, especially marrying an actor. Look at Madonna ... No, don't. I don't have all that underwear going for me. I'm a rock-and-roll singer and that's it, man, nothing else." She looked off toward the bandstand. "Listen, I have to go. But when Michael comes, I'll introduce you."

"Yeah, I wouldn't mind talking to him, he has time."

"You want him to do a movie?"

"We're thinking about it."

"Good luck." Nicki stubbed out her cigarette before looking up at him again. "We're gonna open tonight, play around with the Stones' 'Street Fighting Man.' What do you think?"

With that innocent straight face, putting him on.

It took Chili four seconds to find the alb.u.m cover and the t.i.tle in his mind from twenty years ago, the concert recorded live at the Garden and Tommy playing the record over and over, Tommy at the time stoned on the Stones.

Chili said, straight-faced back to her, "FromGet Yer Ya-Ya's Out, huh? That one?" huh? That one?"

It got Nicki smiling at him, looking good, those nice blue eyes shining. She said, "You're a cool guy, Chil, without even trying."

They'd start a number, race into it and stop and Nicki would play part of it over on her bull's-eye guitar, slower, smoother, and then one of the guitar players would pick it up, imitating, give a nod and the drummer would kick them off again. They might be good-Chili couldn't tell. Hearing a line of music by itself, when Nicki showed them how, it sounded okay, but all of them playing together came out as noise and was irritating.

Thinking of that alb.u.m cover again, he seemed to recall a guy in an Uncle Sam hat jumping up in the air with a guitar in each hand. He liked the Rolling Stones then, back in the hippie days, all the flakes running around making peace signs. It made him think of the time they grabbed this hippie, dragged him into Tommy Carlo's cousin's barbershop and zipped all his f.u.c.kin hair off with the clippers. He thought of that and started thinking of Ray Bones again and Leo the drycleaner, his calling Leo dumb for leaving three hundred grand in a hotel-room closet, and where was it now? Under his bed at the Sunset Marquis. He'd check, make sure Leo and Annette had taken off, just to be on the safe side. Later tonight he'd call Fay, tell her to look for three hundred big ones coming by Express Mail. Put it in one of those containers they gave you at the post office. He'd hang on to the extra ten grand. Maybe pay off Ray Bones, get that out of the way, or maybe not. But the three hundred, basically, was Fay's. Let her do whatever she wanted with it. Two to one she'd tell a friend of hers about it and pretty soon the suits would come by, knock on the door, flash their I.D.'s ...

He wondered what would've happened if he'd brought Fay with him to Vegas ...

And realized he was thinking of it as a movie again, the way he had told it to Harry and Karen, but seeing new possibilities, getting the woman, Fay, into the story more, looking at it the same way he had looked atLovejoy and saw what was needed. Fay comes to L.A. with him ... and saw what was needed. Fay comes to L.A. with him ...

Except it wouldn't behim, it would be an actor, Jesus, like Robert De Niro playing the shylock. And for Fay ... it would be an actor, Jesus, like Robert De Niro playing the shylock. And for Fay ...

Karen.Why not? Karen even had kind of a you-all accent, though it wasn't as downhome as the way Fay talked. Okay, now, by the time they get to L.A. they realize they're hot for each other and aren't even sure they want to find her husband, Leo, except he's got all that f.u.c.kin dough. Do they want it? They know somebody who does, Ray Bones, he's coming after them and he'll kill for that money.

It didn't sound too bad.

You have Leo pulling the scam on the airline in the opening ...

Or, no, you start with the shylock and Fay waiting for Leo to come home from the track, while actually he's out at the airport getting smashed and the jet takes off without him and goes down in the swamp, blows up.

So you have the shylock, basically a good guy, a former shylock, played by Bobby De Niro. You have Karen Flores making her successful comeback as Fay ... She wouldn't have a sweaty job, she could be something else, an entertainer, a singer. You have Leo ... You wouldn't have Harry in it or the limo guys-it wasn't a movie about making a movie-but you'd have Ray Bones in it. Leo would be a tough one to cast. Get an actor who could play a good sleazeball ... It took Chili a moment to realize the room was quiet. Nicki and her guys were looking this way, but not at him. He looked over ...

And saw Michael Weir.

It was, it was Michael Weir crossing the room from the stairs, giving Nicki a wave, the other hand in his pants pocket, baggy gray pants too long for him. Chili saw that as part of the whole picture, his first look at Michael Weir in person, white Reeboks too. But what caught and held his attention was Michael Weir's jacket. It was like the one left at Vesuvio's twelve years ago, that worn-out World War Two flight jacket n.o.body wanted. It was exactly like it. On a guy that made seven million bucks a movie.

Now Michael Weir had his hand raised to the band. Chili heard him say, "Hey, guys," and it was his voice, Chili recognized it from movies. Michael Weir was good at accents, but you could still tell his voice, kind of nasal. The c.o.c.krockers gave him a nod, not too impressed, these young dropouts with their hair and their guitars. Now it looked like Michael was joking around with them, doing the moonwalk and pretending he was strumming a guitar. He was good, but the guys still didn't seem impressed. Michael turned to Nicki and right away she grabbed his arm and Chili saw them coming this way, Nicki doing the talking, Michael Weir looking up and then Nicki looking up as she said, "Chil? I'd like you to meet Michael."

Chili got to his feet, ready to shake hands with a superstar. What surprised him now was how short the guy was in real life.

18.

It took Chili a couple of minutes to figure Michael Weir out. He wanted people to think he was a regular guy, but was too used to being who he was to pull it off.

The two of them sitting at the table now, Chili asked him if he wanted a drink. Michael, watching Nicki and her band through the archway, said yeah, that sounded like a good idea. Chili asked him what he wanted. Michael said oh, anything. Did he want Scotch, bourbon, a beer? Michael said oh, and stopped and said no, he'd like a Perrier. Still watching Nicki and the band. They hadn't started to play. Chili looked over at the bar, not open yet, thinking he'd have to go all the way upstairs to get the movie star his soda water. Right then Michael said, "They're a tough audience."

Chili noticed the movie star's expression, eyebrows raised, like he'd just heard some bad news but was more surprised than hurt.

"My Michael Jackson went right by them."

Oh-meaning his moonwalk routine. Chili said, "It looked good to me." It did.

"To do it right you put on a touch of eye makeup, white socks, the glove ... I was a little off on the voice too, the baby-doll whisper?"

Chili said, "I couldn't hear that part."

"But I can understand it, guys like that, their att.i.tude. It has to do with territorial imperative."

Chili said, "That must be it," feeling more at ease with the movie star, knowing a bulls.h.i.tter when he met one. It didn't mean the guy wasn't good.

"I'm not certain why," Michael said, "but it reminds me of the one, the third-rate actor doing Hamlet?" Michael smiling with his eyes now. "He's so bad that before long the audience becomes vocally abusive, yelling at him to get off the stage. They keep it up until the actor, finally, unable to take any more, stops the soliloquy and says to the audience, 'Hey, what're you blaming me for? I didn't write this s.h.i.t.' "

Now they were both smiling, Michael still doing his with his eyes, saying, "I could tell those kids I didn't invent Michael Jackson ... someone else did." Chili wondering, if it doesn't bother him, why didn't he just drop it? Chili looking for the right moment to bring upMr. Lovejoy.

He was ready to get into it, said, "Oh, by the way ..." and Nicki's band kicked off, filling the room with their sound, and Michael turned his chair to face the bandstand through the archway. They were loud at first, but then settled down and it wasn't too bad, more like rhythm and blues than rock and roll. The beat got the tips of Chili's fingers brushing the table. Michael sat with his hands folded in his lap, his legs in the baggy pants stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed, the laces of one of his Reeboks loose, coming untied. He looked more like in his thirties than forty-seven. Not a bad-looking guy, even with the nose, Chili studying his profile. There was no way to tell if Michael liked the beat or not. Chili thought of asking him, but had the feeling people waited for the movie star to speak first, give his opinion and then everybody would say yeah, that's right, always agreeing. Like with Momo, the few times Chili saw him in the social club years ago, noticing the way the guys hung on to whatever Momo said. It was like you had to put kneepads on to talk to this man who never worked in his life.