He put an arm around me and helped me across the lawn into the passenger’s seat. The inside was red and white as a strawberry sundae, with black analog gauges. It was inefficient and sprawling; it screamed of hubris and excess and obsolescence; it was America on wheels.
As he started up the car, the insane anachronistic engine he’d put in there rumbled like the wrath of God. And off we went.
“There’s a scarf in the glove compartment if you need it for your hair,” he said.
“You take out a lot of women in this thing?” I said playfully.
“Well, my wife,” he said. We’d just stopped at an intersection, so he turned and gave me a pointed look.
“I wouldn’t touch anything that belonged to such a classy lady,” I said, equally pointedly. “My hair will be fine.”
“You are fantastic,” he said, and the light turned green.
The traffic was not good at this hour, but who could possibly have cared? I had the whole blue California sky above me and one of the most famous men in the world sitting to my left. People were pulling out their phones to snap pictures. Twenty-four hours earlier I would have slumped down, used that scarf to hide my face, but now I just leaned my head back against the seat and enjoyed my fifteen minutes of fame.
Berenbaum respected my need to bask; he waited until we got onto the scenic portion of the Pacific Coast Highway to start talking business.
“I don’t want you to worry about Johnny,” he said. “If -anything serious had happened to him, I would know. I still believe everything is going to be okay, and I need you to believe that with me, all right?”
“I do, I do, I do believe in fairies,” I said. If he’d asked me to set his car on fire by a police station, I’d have said yes.
To our left, blue ocean shredded itself on golden rocks, and to our right the same rocks rose up to make a high wall, -broken up with desert scrub and the occasional improbable patch of wildflowers. The highway writhed like a snake scaled with too many cars, hiding another gorgeous view around the next curve.
“Mr. Berenbaum!” called a young male voice a couple of lanes over and behind us. I turned and saw another convertible with a young guy leaning over the passenger’s side.
At the look on the guy’s face, I felt something dark and petty twist in my gut. I’d dreamed of being looked at that way, once. I’d imagined having fans, going to glitzy parties, winning Oscars. It hurt, remembering optimism that now looked like idiocy.
My self-pity didn’t last long; David Berenbaum’s presence was like a fire hose of sunshine.
“Read my script!” the guy shouted at him.
“I will if you can get it into my car,” David called back over his shoulder.
The guy seemed to be doing some calculations and seriously thinking about throwing the thing. I felt bad for him; he had clearly never passed a physics class. But this was a Hollywood Moment. This could change his life. I didn’t want to watch him make an ass of himself, but I also couldn’t look away.
The screenwriter leaned over in an urgent conference with the driver, and I saw the turn signal go on.
“He’s changing lanes,” I said, now alarmed. “He’s coming over here.”
“Good for him!” Berenbaum said.
So much for my idyllic little date with David. “What if he has a gun or something?” I said.
“I hope you’re not saying that because the driver is black.”
“He is?” He was. I hadn’t noticed. Or had I? Goddamn it. “It’s not the driver I’m worried about,” I said. “He has both hands on the wheel.”
“Use your eyes, Millie,” said David. “Be a director. What story are the visuals telling?”
I tried to relax, even as the other car tailgated the one next to us, trying to close the space. “It’s a BMW. The writer’s younger than the driver, maybe early twenties. Driver and passenger are both wearing designer stuff, but understated. I’m guessing old money.”
“Rich kids are brought up with the idea that violence is beneath them,” Berenbaum observed.
“Well, it is,” I said as the BMW flashed its lights, honked, and otherwise made itself a nuisance to the car ahead of it.
“Grew up rich, eh?” He laughed. “It’s easier to dehumanize someone than to try to understand the context of a violent act.”
“Johnny’s blood is splattered all over Union Station,” I said recklessly. “Does the context of that violence matter to you?”
“Of course it does,” he said without hesitation, making me wonder if he’d heard the extent of the carnage already. “Johnny may look like a pampered pretty boy, but he’s also a savage motherfucker when he’s cornered. I’m guessing he threw the first punch.”