Serious Enough for Me to Call You, Frank Said, As He Slurped Coffee

Chapter 8

It was early Monday morning, a few minutes to nine. Frank sat in his study, still wearing his bathrobe and drinking his third cup of coffee and munching on a toasted bagel. It had been a restless night, and he didn’t fall off to sleep until nearly three a.m. At the stroke of nine, when he knew the phones were turned on at his agent’s office, he called Stuart Doucette and gave him the grim details of his Friday afternoon meeting with director Pearson. Although Doucette never had the impression that Frank was going to be held to any tight restrictions and a laundry list of taboo subjects, he advised Frank that his contract clearly stated that Ellen Li had final approval of the manuscript. Moreover, if Frank didn’t agree with any changes done by Mrs. Li, he could not remove his name as author or write under a pseudonym because the book’s publisher had geared its marketing and publicity to the notoriety and following of former newspaper reporter Frank Bellows. “How serious was Richard Pearson about thinking Ellen Li was covering up something?” Doucette asked. “Serious enough for me to call you,” Frank said, as he slurped coffee. “Well, Pearson is right. As I told you when we first talked about this assignment, when it comes to writing biographies, you cannot under any circumstances misstate or hide pertinent facts. What’s this woman so worried about, anyway?” “I have no idea,” Frank said, standing and turning for his bedroom. “Maybe nothing. Maybe Pearson’s paranoid.” “Well, let’s hope so.” Frank entered the bathroom and turned on the shower. “I should know more this afternoon. If this turns out to be a big nothing, meet me tomorrow at Tommy’s on Beverly and Rampart and I’ll treat you to a double chili cheeseburger with a side of Habenero peppers.” Doucette laughed, and then terminated the call without further discussion. Frank called Ellen Li, who was in Beverly Hills having her nails done, but agreed to meet him at her home later that morning. Upon his arrival around 11:00 a.m., he was informed by He- ping that Mrs. Li was running behind schedule and had requested that he wait for her. Frank told He-ping that when the lady of the house arrived, she could find him in the back room where her husband’s auction was being assembled. Upon entering the Andy Li Room, Frank saw that Jim Loeb had been busy at work. More items were spread out on additional folding tables. A dozen of Andy’s costumes had been returned from the cleaners and hung on racks, all with exorbitant price tags awaiting the highest bidders. Frank poked around the new items, then turned to the bank of filing cabinets, thinking he’d leaf through an old magazine while he waited for Ellen Li. Upon arriving at the cabinets, he discovered they were locked, which he found curious. On top of the end cabinet, he noticed a pair of binoculars sitting on top of the cabinets beside a row of windows. He looked out the windows. In a direct line was the pool, all of fifty feet away. Sunning on a chaise lounge was Brenda wearing a bikini. Her college schoolbooks were on an adjacent table, along with an iced drink, her iPod, and a bottle of baby oil. Frank suddenly recalled the Saturday afternoon following the riot at the Kodak Theater when he was out at the pool and saw glints of what he thought was sunlight being reflected off something in the Andy Li Room. Had the sun been hitting the binocular lenses? Hearing footsteps coming from the garage, he looked up to the arrival of Jim Loeb. “Hello, Jim,” Frank said as Loeb entered. At first, Loeb was startled, then appeared puzzled by Frank’s presence. “Oh, Mr. Bellows. What are you doing here?” “I’m waiting for Mrs. Li.” “Oh. Is she here?” the young man said, still looking confused. “She’s running late.” “Oh,” Loeb remarked as he glanced over his tables of memorabilia. “Do you have any idea why these file cabinets are locked?” Frank asked. Loeb looked over at the cabinets and then back to Frank. “No, not really.” “Are they usually locked?” “They’ve never been locked, at least not since I’ve been here.” He surveyed the room, looking to see if anything else was different from when he last visited. “Did you need something from the cabinets?” Loeb inquired. “No, not really,” Frank said, then decided to change the subject. “I see you’ve got lots of new items?” Loeb looked at the tables. “Yeah, I guess so. You planning on bidding on any of this?” “Wasn’t planning on it?” Frank said with a casual smile. “Yeah, I didn’t think you’d be interested.” “You do pretty well with these auctions?” “Ten percent. It’s my first.” The phone rang in Ellen’s adjacent office. Her voice from her answering machine echoed down the hall and filtered into the room. “Hello, you have reached the Li residence. Please leave a message.” There was a “beep” followed by Paul Janofsky’s voice. He sounded frazzled. “Ellen, Paul. We need to get all those business files relating to Wendell Mallard out of that back room. You need to box it all up and send it over to my office and I’ll put it in the safe. We’ve been so busy lately, it got past me, but we should have taken care of that before Bellows showed up, for obvious reasons. Anyway, we’ll talk later. Oh, by the way, I locked all the file cabinets. Ciao.” The call ended. Frank and Loeb stared at each other, both frozen. The spell was broken by the motorized sound of one of the garage door openers. “That’s probably Mrs. Li,” Loeb said uncomfortably. Five minutes later, Frank sat alone in the living room, looking up at the portrait of Andy Li that loomed over the fireplace. Frank was familiar with the investment brokerage firm of Wendell Mallard and wondered why Janofsky would have suddenly placed a high priority on moving Ellen Li’s account files from her house simply because Frank was around. Ellen entered, looking very casual in her linen pants and powder blue turtleneck sweater. “Please forgive the delay. I had a pressing phone call I had to return.” Frank was certain the call was to Paul Janofsky regarding her financial records. “No problem,” he said, unable to read her blasé mood. She sat across from him and smiled politely. He could feel her pent up energy. It was difficult to tell if it was caused by anxiety, caffeine, or sexual frustration—or maybe all three. “So, Mr. Bellows, I presume you’re keeping busy,” she said after releasing her breath that she held for several seconds. “The book’s moving along,” he said, then quickly came to the point. “What I wanted to talk with you about is a meeting I had last Friday with the film’s director.” “Mr. Pearson,” she said, unfazed. “He’s very talented.” “Yes. And very nervous. Actually, a better description would be manic.” News of Pearson’s stressed emotional state didn’t appear to bother her. “No doubt caused from overwork,” she said, remaining aloof. This was a woman who was used to being in control. Her eyes didn’t wander, although she seemed preoccupied in thought. Frank sensed it wasn’t about Pearson. “His problem is he feels his film grossly misrepresents your husband’s life.” “Oh?” she remarked as she glanced at her new acrylic nails. “He thinks the critics will lambast him, and that the book will meet the same fate.” Her laugh sounded strained, although it was possible it wasn’t. “Please trust me on this, Mr. Bellows. The critics aren’t about to write anything that will anger my husband’s millions of loyal fans,” she said, smiling assuredly. She crossed her legs in one smooth motion, and Frank was compelled to glance at them, just a quick up and down, but she noticed. “Twenty years ago I’d agree with you,” he commented. “But today we live in a different world.” “I’m sure you’re right. But unfortunately, one can only tell so much in two hours. I would think Mr. Pearson knows that.” “I’m sure he does, but the problem isn’t that he’s short on time. He thinks the film’s accounting of your husband’s life is blatantly lopsided.” There was no question that the comment irritated the woman. Her cordial demeanor was replaced with disdain. “Meaning his film doesn’t include the unsubstantiated controversy that has plagued my husband for the past fifteen years.” Pearson was right. Frank had struck a nerve. She was back to inadvertently holding her breath. It occurred to Frank that the resultant light-headedness was her way of calming herself. “What controversy is that?” It was an honest and sincere question. “Excuse me?” she asked, after releasing another deep breath. Frank wondered just how legitimate this controversy was and wasn’t letting up. “I never read any controversy in your rough manuscript or any of the materials you sent over or Pearson’s script. And that concerns me because no one mentioned this prior to my coming on board.” “Well, why would they?” she said, then glanced around the room, then back to Frank. “Mr. Bellows, would you care for something to drink? An iced tea or sparkling water, or perhaps something stronger. It’s close to lunch.” “No, nothing, thank you.” She stood and walked to a wet bar. Her perfume seemed to settle over him. “I didn’t mention it because what little, and meaningless, controversy there is amounts to —well, to put it bluntly, a handful of fabricated, malicious lies.” Her words sounded rehearsed, as if she’d been making the comment for years. He considered her for several moments, unconvinced. What meaningless controversy was she talking about? Pearson had stated that Andy Li’s story had the teeth of a great white and that the singer had been the victim of extravagances and obsessions. Ellen poured a glass of chardonnay and took a long sip. She seemed to have put on her game face. “The sad reality, Mr. Bellows, is that these false allegations that have been made about my husband for more than a decade have been very hurtful to my daughter. Although I’ve had some success shielding her from the cruelty of it all, at times I’ve found myself in an uphill battle. Being a former newspaper reporter, I’m sure you’re no stranger to how ruthless the media can be in their determination to increase sales.” “You’re very correct, Mrs. Li. Ironically, however, the press that helps make a person a star is the same press that can bring about their downfall. Unfortunately, sometimes reporters— and authors—become the innocent victims of the collateral damage, which is something I’d like to avoid. I’m sure you understand.” “Of course,” she said, as she returned and again sat across from Frank. “Was there something in particular that concerns you?” “You mean besides my meeting with Pearson?” “Yes,” she replied, taking a long sip of wine as she continued looking at him. “Well, now that you mention it, I was wondering why all those filing cabinets in the room where the auction is being assembled are now locked.” There was concern on her face, which she quickly was able to mask. He assumed she was unaware that he had overhead Janofsky’s voice message telling her that he had locked the cabinets. “They’re locked?” she said with a puzzled expression. “Yes. And when you initially showed me the room, they weren’t.” “Was there something you needed? I mean, besides the materials I had delivered to your apartment?” It was clear that she was purposely avoiding the subject. When Frank first opened the filing cabinets, he recalled seeing a file labeled AUTOPSY and another labeled HONG KONG INQUEST. He was aware that the coroner had ordered both documents sealed following his final ruling at the closed inquest. Frank considered suggesting that he’d like to see both files, but was convinced she’d stonewall him. “No, not really,” he said disinterestedly. “But if something occurs to me, I’ll let you know.” His penetrating look caused her to graciously run her hand through her hair. She finally responded to the awkward silence. “Mr. Bellows, it may have occurred to you that I didn’t agree to this film and book for the money.” Not personally, but someone was pushing it, he thought to himself. “Yes, I gathered that.” “As Andy’s widow, I’ll always be a part of his legacy. That doesn’t interest me. What’s important is my daughter and her children, when the day comes that she has children. I want them to remember how Andy lived, not how he died.” Her eyes had watered a bit when she spoke of her daughter, causing Frank to soften his delivery. “I understand. It’s just that in a biography it’s often difficult to separate the two.” “Well, I’m sure that for a man with your talent, that shouldn’t be a problem. Anyway, when the film and book are released, I’m confident you’ll be pleased with the reviews and the revenue. Now if there’s nothing else, I have several things I need to attend to.” Frank assumed that one was packing her Wendell Mallard files. Whatever it was, she had returned to her business face. Her enthusiasm was underwhelming. Frank stood. “I appreciate your time.” As he drove down the driveway, he spotted her standing behind the sheer drapes of her living room window, observing his departure. Unquestionably, their talk was upsetting to her, although she kept her composure. He wondered why she had little or no concern about her deceased husband’s legacy, except how it might affect Brenda. He also wondered about the binoculars he’d discovered on top of the filing cabinets and whether Jim Loeb had been surreptitiously eying Brenda sunning at the pool in her bikini. Two hours later, Frank sat on his ninth floor balcony at the Wilshire Comstock. He drank from his bourbon and water and took a drag off his pipe, as his gaze drifted toward the Pacific less than ten miles away. Perhaps things weren’t so bad. He’d be finished with the book in a week or so and be receiving his final check. A hundred grand plus residuals and a percentage of Pearson’s movie started looking better as he polished off his drink. Besides, whoever said that writing was supposed to be a walk in the park? Life could be worse. What he didn’t know was that his life was about to become a whole lot worse.