Toby were with us, he'd be screaming back to her with his head stuck out the window, even if he were driving. Especially if he were driving."
"Give me fifty words on Toby." It seemed like a safe subject.
"Which fifty?"
"Well, I already know his favorite color."
Dixie sucked in his cheeks, looking more than ever like a man on the verge of a satisfying spit. "Toby's tough," he said. "He likes being a star, and he might even hold on to it. He works. Knows his lines, shows up on time, gets the job done. How many words is that?"
"You've got a few left."
"He's smarter than you think—correction—smarter than I think. I found that out right away. He's got charm down cold. He's very, very good at being the little boy who can't figure out what he's done wrong. No matter what it is. He can look so sweet. And way down in the middle of it all, under the grin and the skin, he's so sick that Freud would have gotten a job as a bricklayer. Getting to know him is like opening a big, bright Christmas package and finding a box full of snakes."
"So," I said, "who was he before he was Toby?"
"Officially," Dixie said, "he was born in South Dakota, raised on a farm, and encouraged by a kindly, white-haired old drama teacher who loaned him the money to come to Hollywood. When he got here he took a job in a gas station and paid her back before he went on his first audition."
"Her? Hard to believe, Toby repaying a her."
"Yeah. That's one of the reasons I don't believe the story."
"What's the other reason?"
"I wrote it." The Laurel Canyon off ramp flashed by. The sun was out, and it was beginning to look like July again. "It's junk, all the way," Dixie volunteered, focused on the road. "I'd bet that Toby had a bad time as a kid. He's got a wincer's eyes. He may have grown up on a farm, but there weren't any sun-dappled fields."
"Where are we going, Dixie?" I didn't know the Valley very well.
"Location. West of Van Nuys and south of Ventura. High rent all the way. It's so genteel the trees wear panty hose."
"And you're setting Toby loose in it?"
He sucked in his cheeks again, punching the accelerator as though he had a grudge against it. "He's got something to look forward to today."
"Meaning?"
He went through the preliminaries for another spit and then swallowed. "You'll see."
The car was plusher than some of the rooms I'd slept in, and a lot colder. "So," I said, "Norman pays pretty good, does he?"
"What I go through," Dixie said, swinging the wheel to the right, "it better. What's the matter, you short a few zeros?"
"What do you go through, Dixie?"
"You should live to be a hundred," Dixie said, "and not find out."
We got off at Van Nuys Boulevard, a street that runs down the center of the Valley, as straight as the filling in a tamale. Dixie accelerated left through a red light and coasted across Ventura, heading south. The neighborhood did a quick-change act. Behind us were stucco storefronts and asphalt alleys, and in front of us were old oak trees, rolling lawns, dusty patches of ice plant, and ranch-style houses that rambled expensively through twelve to fourteen rooms.
I put my hand against the window, and it felt hot. We were surrounded by money, but the money hadn't been able to intimidate the heat.
"I hate locations," Dixie said, using up a little of the venom he'd been suppressing. "Hatteras, right?" He swung right, not waiting for an answer. "Wherever we are," he muttered, "here we are."
An oak tree ancient enough to command its own complement of Druids divided the road in front of us. Tacked to it like a G-string on a dowager was a cardboard sign reading HIGH VELOCITY . Beyond the tree was a scattering of equipment—trailers, moving vans, arc lights, and cameras— and a knot of people who seemed to be focused on one of the larger lawns. "People," Dixie said bitterly, braking. "Airplanes, weather. The light changes by two f-stops every thirty seconds. Noise. Crickets, for Christ's sake. Any of them can screw you
"Give me fifty words on Toby." It seemed like a safe subject.
"Which fifty?"
"Well, I already know his favorite color."
Dixie sucked in his cheeks, looking more than ever like a man on the verge of a satisfying spit. "Toby's tough," he said. "He likes being a star, and he might even hold on to it. He works. Knows his lines, shows up on time, gets the job done. How many words is that?"
"You've got a few left."
"He's smarter than you think—correction—smarter than I think. I found that out right away. He's got charm down cold. He's very, very good at being the little boy who can't figure out what he's done wrong. No matter what it is. He can look so sweet. And way down in the middle of it all, under the grin and the skin, he's so sick that Freud would have gotten a job as a bricklayer. Getting to know him is like opening a big, bright Christmas package and finding a box full of snakes."
"So," I said, "who was he before he was Toby?"
"Officially," Dixie said, "he was born in South Dakota, raised on a farm, and encouraged by a kindly, white-haired old drama teacher who loaned him the money to come to Hollywood. When he got here he took a job in a gas station and paid her back before he went on his first audition."
"Her? Hard to believe, Toby repaying a her."
"Yeah. That's one of the reasons I don't believe the story."
"What's the other reason?"
"I wrote it." The Laurel Canyon off ramp flashed by. The sun was out, and it was beginning to look like July again. "It's junk, all the way," Dixie volunteered, focused on the road. "I'd bet that Toby had a bad time as a kid. He's got a wincer's eyes. He may have grown up on a farm, but there weren't any sun-dappled fields."
"Where are we going, Dixie?" I didn't know the Valley very well.
"Location. West of Van Nuys and south of Ventura. High rent all the way. It's so genteel the trees wear panty hose."
"And you're setting Toby loose in it?"
He sucked in his cheeks again, punching the accelerator as though he had a grudge against it. "He's got something to look forward to today."
"Meaning?"
He went through the preliminaries for another spit and then swallowed. "You'll see."
The car was plusher than some of the rooms I'd slept in, and a lot colder. "So," I said, "Norman pays pretty good, does he?"
"What I go through," Dixie said, swinging the wheel to the right, "it better. What's the matter, you short a few zeros?"
"What do you go through, Dixie?"
"You should live to be a hundred," Dixie said, "and not find out."
We got off at Van Nuys Boulevard, a street that runs down the center of the Valley, as straight as the filling in a tamale. Dixie accelerated left through a red light and coasted across Ventura, heading south. The neighborhood did a quick-change act. Behind us were stucco storefronts and asphalt alleys, and in front of us were old oak trees, rolling lawns, dusty patches of ice plant, and ranch-style houses that rambled expensively through twelve to fourteen rooms.
I put my hand against the window, and it felt hot. We were surrounded by money, but the money hadn't been able to intimidate the heat.
"I hate locations," Dixie said, using up a little of the venom he'd been suppressing. "Hatteras, right?" He swung right, not waiting for an answer. "Wherever we are," he muttered, "here we are."
An oak tree ancient enough to command its own complement of Druids divided the road in front of us. Tacked to it like a G-string on a dowager was a cardboard sign reading HIGH VELOCITY . Beyond the tree was a scattering of equipment—trailers, moving vans, arc lights, and cameras— and a knot of people who seemed to be focused on one of the larger lawns. "People," Dixie said bitterly, braking. "Airplanes, weather. The light changes by two f-stops every thirty seconds. Noise. Crickets, for Christ's sake. Any of them can screw you
Similar Books
