Read Page 25

“Did he say what for?” I ask.

“No. He didn’t have your number and he wanted it and so I gave it to him.”Advertisement

“He didn’t have my number?”

“That’s what he said.”

“I don’t think he’s called me.”

“Said he needed to talk to you. Listen, I don’t like to relay phone messages, dude, so be grateful.”

“Thanks.”

“He said he’ll be at the Chinese Theater today at three-thirty. You could meet him there, I guess.”

“What’s he doing there?” I ask.

“What do you think?”

I decide to meet Julian. I drive over to the Chinese Theater on Hollywood Boulevard and stare at the footprints for a little while. Except for a young couple, not from L.A., taking pictures of the footprints and this suspicious-looking Oriental guy standing by the ticket booth, there’s no one around. The tan blond usher standing by the door says to me, “Hey, I know you. Two Decembers ago at a party in Santa Monica, right?”

-- Advertisement --

pqdm.comads300x250--

“I don’t think so,” I tell him.

“Yeah. Kicker’s party. Remember?”

I tell him I don’t remember and then ask him if the concession stand’s open. The usher says yeah and lets me in and I buy a Coke.

“The movie already began though,” the usher tells me.

“That’s okay. I don’t want to see the movie,” I tell him.

The suspicious-looking Oriental guy keeps looking at his watch, finally leaves. I finish the Coke and wait until around four. Julian doesn’t show up.

I drive to Trent’s house, but Trent isn’t there and so I sit in his room and put a movie in the Betamax and call Blair and ask her if she wants to do something tonight, go to a club or see a movie and she says she would and I start to draw on a piece of paper that’s next to the phone, recopying phone numbers on it.

“Julian wants to see you,” Blair tells me.

“Yeah. I heard. Did he say what for?”

“I don’t know what he wants to see you about. He just said he has to talk to you.”

“Do you have his number?” I ask.

“No. They changed all the numbers at the house in Bel Air. I think he’s probably at the house in Malibu. I’m not too sure, though .… Does it matter? He probably doesn’t want to see you that badly.”

“Well,” I begin, “maybe I’ll stop by the house in Bel Air.”

“Okay.”

“If you want to do anything tonight, call me, okay?” I tell her.

“Okay.”

There’s a long silence and she says okay once more and hangs up.

Julian’s not at the house in Bel Air, but there’s a note on the door saying that he might be at some house on King’s Road. Julian’s not at the house on King’s Road either, but some guy with braces and short platinum-blond hair and a bathing suit on lifting weights is in the backyard. He puts one of the weights down and lights a cigarette and asks me if I want a Quaalude. I ask him where Julian is. There’s a girl lying by the pool in a chaise longue, blond, drunk, and she says in a really tired voice, “Oh, Julian could be anywhere. Does he owe you money?” The girl has brought a television outside and is watching some movie about cavemen.

“No,” I tell her.

“Well, that’s good. He promised to pay for a gram of coke I got him.” She shakes her head. “Nope. He never did.” She shakes her head again, slowly, her voice thick, a bottle of gin, half-empty, by her side.

The weightlifter with the braces on asks me if I want to buy a Temple of Doom bootleg cassette. I tell him no and then ask him to tell Julian that I stopped by. The weightlifter nods his head like he doesn’t understand and the girl asks him if he got the backstage passes to the Missing Persons concert. He says, “Yeah, baby,” and she jumps in the pool. Some caveman gets thrown off a cliff and I split.

On the way to my car I bump into Julian. He’s pale beneath the tan and doesn’t look too great and I get the feeling he’s going to faint, standing there, looking almost dead, but his mouth opens and he says, “Hi, Clay.”

“Hey, Julian.”

“Wanna get stoned.”

“Not now.”

“I’m glad you came by.”

“Heard you wanted to see me.”

“Yeah.”

“What did you want? What’s going on?”

Julian looks down and then up at me, squinting at the setting sun and says, “Money.” pqdm.com