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ALMOST TWO YEARS
LATER, WEDNESDAY,
March 11, 1987
Chapter 44
Silver-haired Joh
Orchestral fanfare and long, sustained applause exploded as Bu
“She looks spectacular,” Deirdre said, watching the show from the bed she now shared with Tyler in their arts-and-crafts bungalow in Los Feliz Village. Deirdre’s share of the income from her father’s book and the movie deal had been enough for half the down payment on the house and a year’s rent on a storefront on Hollywood Boulevard where she’d soon open her own art gallery. Deirdre and Henry had given a share of their earnings to Gloria, who’d opened a yoga and meditation studio at a hot springs resort between Death Valley and Las Vegas.
On TV, Bu
When the applause died down, Carson sat and rested his arms on his desk. “As you can hear, you’ve been missed.”
“Thank you. This means so much to me.” Bu
“And I trust you have,” Carson said, glancing at her leg and giving the audience one of his trademark smirks. Then he smiled graciously at Bu
“You make me sound like an anachronism.” She gave him a sly look. “But I am happy.”
“Is it your work or something personal?”
“Probably the work. But who can tell? Regret can be very disabling. It took me a long time to learn to let it go.”
He smiled an impish grin. “Screw regret.”
Bu
“You want to show them to us?”
The audience howled.
Bu
Carson spread his arms, like he couldn’t help himself. “Might there be a new man in your life? Because behind every great woman is a great behind.”
The audience laughed, and Bu
As the audience response faded, Joh
“Finished my film.” Bu
“You want to talk about your film? What’s it called?”
“You know what it’s called.”
“Notorio,” Carson said, and music swelled, violins in a syncopated tango with flourishes from a snare drum. A movie poster came up. There was Bu
“Notorio,” Bu
“Tito?”
“Just a coincidence.”
“In Hollywood, there’s no such thing as coincidence.”
“He’s a young Fernando Lamas.”
“Fernando Lamas.”
“It was a great experience.”
“With Tito Altavista?”
She looked toward the audience. “Yes.”
“Have you ever worked with Fernando Lamas?”
Bu
“And are you having fun with this new movie?”
“I never do anything I don’t enjoy,” Bu
Joh
Bu
On the screen now was the cover of Arthur’s book. Joh
True to Sy’s word, as soon as Deirdre had given him the manuscript, Shosha
“Yes. Arthur Unger is”—Bu
The book cover faded and was replaced by a head shot of Arthur himself taken back in the early days, the kind of black-and-white publicity still that the studio had taken of all its contract talent. Then the picture of Arthur faded, replaced by a still from the movie, Bu
Jerry Orbach wasn’t Jack Nicholson or Dustin Hoffman—not A-list enough to share the limelight on the Tonight show with Bu
On TV, Carson asked Bu
“Yes. We collaborated before his tragic death.”
Collaborated? That made Deirdre laugh out loud.
“In fact, we talked about it the very day he died. Ironic, don’t you think?” Bu
“And I understand Arthur Unger was not just a friend of yours,” Carson said. “His book gives an inside look at the most tragic event in your life, a murder almost twenty-five years ago that got worldwide headlines. People still haven’t forgotten. It’s something you have never talked about publicly before.”
“And I’m not starting now.”
“So if we want to know—”
“Go see the movie. It’s always better than real life.”
The camera held for a moment on Carson’s face, his eyebrows raised in dismay. “You heard what the lady said. See the film. And with that . . .” he said and pointed off camera.
The TV went to commercial, and there was Bu