Major to Minor

New York, 1979

Johnny pulled on his jeans and a grey sweatshirt. Taped to the bathroom mirror was a bright-yellow piece of paper with his initials, JGR, at the top.

The phone, somewhere in the loft, was ringing. Johnny darted from place to place, tracking the sound. "Keep ringin’," he shouted, "keep ringin’ and you shall be rewarded by . . . aha!" He threw himself across the enormous bed and pulled the gold-and-white phone out from under the bedtable.

"Good evening. Phipps-St. Pierre residence."

"Hi, Johnny. It’s Marcia at the Golden Group. I have Rose Golden for you."

"Thanks." He waited.

"John?"

"Yeah, Rose. How are you?"

"I’m fine, John. How’s Andy and Pete’s place?"

"It’s good. I haven’t really explored yet. Sort of dropped my stuff and went for a walk. Great neighbourhood . . . if you’re rich. Found a quiet place to read the newspaper and have coffee. There’s a cat somewhere in the loft, but he’s hiding. He’ll probably show up when . . ."

"John?"

"Yeah. Sorry Rose. Didn’t mean to babble at you."

"Not to worry. Listen honey, I have some news."

"News? ’Bout what?"

"About Brotherz."

Apparently, Johnny was, as Andy had written, "perfect" in the film.

Apparently, Robert MacKenzie, who also thought Johnny was perfect in the film, had final cut.

Apparently, Robert MacKenzie was Marty Rachman’s client.

Apparently, Robert MacKenzie’s next film was to star two more of Marty Rachman’s clients. Rachman told MacKenzie he’d pull those, as yet unsigned, clients, upon whose "attachment" the whole deal hinged, if MacKenzie did not cut John Grandon Reed’s part in Brotherz down to nothing. Robert Mac-Kenzie was a respected director, with two Academy Awards. He and Rachman had a huge fight. There was a standoff. Andover Phipps said Johnny was "brilliant, and a key component in the heart and soul of my story." Marty Rachman said "Bend-over Phipps has no power in Hollywood" and that he wasn’t "gonna give an inch on this." Finally MacKenzie, already signed and in preproduction with the new film, caved.

"Bob MacKenzie is sick over this. I know him, Johnny. It isn’t the usual Hollywood crocodile sympathy – he is truly sorry. And angry. Feels Rachman is making him hurt his film. Says he’s in a corner. There’s no way he can insist on your having full coverage without winding up in court for a long time. In which case, neither Brotherz nor the new project will see daylight until the lawsuit or lawsuits resolve. Says to please forgive him, and give it a year or two. He promised me he’d make it up to you. He also says that, even with the role . . . reduced, you are, to quote him, a great camera presence, and . . . John?"

The kitchen appliances seemed amazingly loud. Johnny let the hums and pings turn to music. Afro-Indian, he thought.

"John?"

"I’m here."

"Do you want to come over to my place? Have a good Jewish meal? . . . Hello?"

"I’m here."

"Well, why don’t you come uptown? Meet Herb, my husband? Have some soup and pot roast?"

"Umm. Could I tomorrow . . . I need . . . to find the cat."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Can I come tomorrow?"

"Of course . . . no, wait. I have to see a client in a bad play. I have to do this, you don’t. What about Saturday brunch? We can show you around the Upper West Side. You like bagels?"

"Bagels?"

"Yeah. The best bagels in the world are . . . Oh, screw the bagels. I’m just talking bullshit. I’m worried about you."

"It’s okay, Rose. I’ll be okay . . . I’d really like to come to brunch on Saturday. And thanks for the worrying. It matters."

He put the phone on the bedtable, replaced the receiver and stood very still for a while, his right hand over his mouth. Then he walked to the window that faced Prince Street. He looked out at the night, the lights, the blur of people coming and going. The green neon sign across the road said Bistro Bellini. He wondered if Mister Bistro Bellini knew Gina. He knew Bistro wasn’t a first name. But it could be, he thought, it fuckin’ could be. He remembered the newspaper article he’d read that morning in the Cupping Room Café. About a little kid, little nine-year-old white kid. From Broken Bow, Oklahoma. He’d shot his sex-abusing stepfather. Shot him ten times. When the police asked him why he’d shot the man so many times, he answered, "I wanted to kill him more than but once."

The Baltimore police had wanted to kill his Uncle Carl more than but once. And, as he was starting to realise, Marty Rachman – with or without a gun – wanted to kill him more than but once. He did not know how many times Marty Rachman would kill him before he was believed to be fully enough killed. He imagined it could be a while before he’d be left alone, Rachman-free, to do Hollywood film work, possibly film work anywhere in America. Possibly television too. Theatre? Possibly. These thoughts both frightened and froze him. He stood at the window for a long time.

He turned because he was being stared at. A huge, black, yellow-eyed cat was watching him from across the room.

"Hey, Jolo? How you doin’ man?" He moved towards the cat, who turned, revealing quite large testicles, and took off for wherever it was that he hid.

Johnny shouted after him, "Walkin’ away from me, are ya?! Friend of Marty Rachman’s are ya?! You got bigger balls!"

He had rarely smoked as a teenager, and never at all since his cigarette-addicted father died, but he wanted a cigarette. Better still, he thought, would be a joint. He knew that Andy and Pete liked to wind down with marijuana.

There had to be a joint somewhere. He opened the drawer of the bedtable and was staring at an enormous bright pink dildo.

"Well, it is a joint." Which caused him to laugh until tears came. Manic laughter and boil-lancing tears. He fell back onto the bed. He lay there for a while, staring at the glitzy silver stars pasted like a Las Vegas constellation on the deep-blue ceiling.

Finally, he sat up and slapped his thighs.

"Right. Feed the cat."

As soon as he began opening the tin of cat food (worst damn smell in the world, he thought, breathing through his mouth), Jolo appeared. Johnny spooned the food into a white plastic bowl, giving the cat time to watch him. As expected, Jolo approached. Still mouth-breathing, Johnny diced up the burger-coloured blob. Jolo rubbed against his leg, purring.

"Oh sure. Now we get the ‘hand fulla gimme an’ the mouth fulla much obliged.’"

Putting the bowl down next to the fridge, he then refilled the adjacent water bowl. Jolo ate, purring. Johnny thought about petting him, deciding against it. He put on his black-and-white high-tops and shoved the loft keys and a twenty-dollar bill into the zippered chest-pocket of his sweatshirt.

He walked west to the highway, not knowing what time of night it was. There was a fair bit of suburban and upstate-destined traffic. He zigged and zagged across to the river. He could see New Jersey on the other shore, speckled with the square geometric jigsaw of light from within apartment windows. A hulking grey ship was moored to his left. It looked military. And deserted. The black water was streaked with yellow undulations from streetlamps and Jerseylight. Johnny knew, from having looked at this Hudson River by day, that it was filled with condoms, turds and floating bits of junk. He had always wondered if that water had anything to do with New York tap water.

He didn’t know where L.A. water came from, but it tasted lousy and absolutely no one in the film industry, as it called itself, drank it. Ever. L.A. had twenty or thirty different kinds of Designer Water – with or without bubbles. Andy Phipps got the Brotherz cast drinking a bubble-free one from Fiji.

Johnny, staring into the Hudson, wondered if they had Fiji Water in New York. He wondered if they had it in London. He wondered if he should drop himself into the water, sink to the bottom, stay there. The answer was no. It was actually Fuck you, Rachman, but no was what it meant. He walked back to the loft, stopping at a corner store to buy a few bananas and a bottle of San Pellegrino water. Italian. With bubbles.