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  “I love you a lot more.” He hugged him, kissing AJ’s hair carefully so as not to muss it. “My father gave it to me for my bar mitzvah—and it was all he had to give. Promise that you’ll give it to your son.”

  “Right, it’ll be a family tradition.” AJ looked over his shoulder and wolf-whistled.

  Edith Head, the doyenne of Hollywood’s costume designers, had personally designed Maggie’s outfit. Her royal blue silk suit ended midcalf, with slits up her legs rakish enough to make the congregation at Beth Israel take note. But the designer’s pièce de résistance was Maggie’s matching hat, a faux yarmulke that contrasted dramatically with her red hair. For all its uncertainties and overruns, today was her production.

  “Thank you for the compliment.” She kissed AJ on the forehead, then sent him off to wipe away the telltale lipstick.

  Neither Harry nor Maggie said a word . . . until he offered, “You look stunning.”

  “I’m tired of being angry,” she said flatly.

  “Me too.”

  “But I still am.”

  “Me too.” He sighed. “We’ve always dealt with the world differently, Maggie. But until Monday I thought we valued it the same way.”

  She started to speak but didn’t. His wife was a car without reverse.

  They heard AJ’s footsteps in the hall. “We’ll figure it out—one way or the other,” he said quietly. “Let’s enjoy today.” They held on to each other long enough for AJ to see. His smile was worth their brief truce.

  As AJ was helping Rabbi Ginsberg remove the Torah from the Holy Ark, a rumbling in the rear of the synagogue distracted worshipers. Harry had turned to tell people to keep quiet when he realized that the commotion was marching down the aisle—Adolph and Lottie Zukor. They took seats in the row behind the Jastrows. Harry was incredulous. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

  “Miss my grandnephew’s bar mitzvah?” Zukor boomed.

  “Shoosh! We took a flight from Chicago so we could make it,” Lottie explained sotto voce. “But he still has a head cold. Now his ears are stuffed—he’s deaf as a doornail.”

  As Harry looked back to the bima, he noticed that his wife was pale. “What’s wrong?”

  “With all that was going on, I didn’t want to say anything,” she whispered. “AJ’s really terrible.”

  “How terrible?”

  “Say the prayer for ‘break a leg.’ ”

  Harry groaned. When he dared to peek, the rabbi had pointed to the place in the Torah where AJ began his aliyah. But his son didn’t look frightened. He had that unmatched focus he displayed over a four-foot putt. And from the first note he clearly required no assistance, divine or otherwise. His chanting gripped the congregation. “What are you talking about?” Harry asked.

  At the kiddush reception directly after the ceremony, the proud parents smothered their son in hugs. Maggie couldn’t resist. “How’d you do it?”

  “After my tryout, I tried memorizing the passage like you said, but it felt wrong. So I borrowed against my bar mitzvah loot and hired a student at UCLA to tutor me.”

  “Every freedom fighter in Israel is proud of you,” Zukor interrupted. He handed his grandnephew an envelope stuffed with cash. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

  After AJ and Maggie disappeared to count, Adolph pulled Harry aside. “I read your manifesto. A regular Karl Marx you are . . . and long-winded. You believe we need to make big changes?”

  “Adolph, what we do in the next year will determine the course of the business for the next twenty years. Unless we control television and make it work for us, other people will step into the void—agents, the advertising agencies, and the networks. None of them is our friend.”

  “Barney thinks you’re disruptive.”

  “I am. The status quo won’t hold.”

  “A few of the ideas make me think that you’re not so smart.”

  “Which? Tell me—”

  “Relax. All this commotion is not good. Anyway, I think you are on to something.” Zukor closed his eyes for such a long beat that Harry thought he’d dozed off standing up. “We had disasters like this in the early days. Did I ever tell you about the fire?”

  “The one that burned down the Twenty-sixth Street Studio?” The 1915 blaze in New York had wiped out every piece of film equipment Zukor owned.

  “I didn’t have a pot to piss in. Or a window to throw it out of. But did that stop me? No! I turned that riding academy on Fifty-sixth Street into an even bigger studio.” He stood taller. “I’ll work out your problem somehow. Paramount without you isn’t Paramount to me.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But try not to be such a pain in the ass. We got to compromise . . . be a team.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Harry watched as Zukor strutted back to the buffet, then stuck his hand into the chopped liver and licked his fingers clean. Those fingers that had been picking and blowing his nose all day.

  That simple act—so ruthlessly crude, so effortlessly arrogant—convinced Harry that it was time to leave. Not Hollywood—Hollywood was his home. But Paramount wasn’t. It couldn’t be home with the people who lived there. What kind of job could he find? Maybe better, maybe more of the same. Harry intended to find out. He could always start a company and wait for AJ to grow up. His letter of resignation sat in the right-hand drawer of his desk. On Monday he would hand it to Adolph. But not until Balaban and Herzog learned they’d lost.

  The swans in the pond at the entrance to the Hotel Bel-Air ignored the black-tie crowd arriving for AJ’s reception. Their indifference impressed the guests. Hollywood coveted class—especially WASP class—and as Ray Stark noted, those birds didn’t have a Jewish feather on them. As a former florist at Forest Lawn Mortuaries, he’d personally designed the floral centerpieces and arrived early to supervise their placement.

  Harry had a secret crush on Jean Howard, Maggie’s best friend and the event’s official photographer. To him, the former Ziegfeld girl was more alluring than the screen personalities she regularly captured at work and play. Right now Jean was focused on lining up a shot of the family in front of a fountain salvaged from a seventeenth-century Spanish mission. She called for her assistant to move the fill light to the left, and from behind the trunk of a banana palm stepped Naomi Riordan.

  At fourteen she had joined the Beat Generation before America knew it existed. Wearing black slacks and a black turtleneck, Naomi secured her dark brown hair with an ivory barrette, exposing a face so untouched by the sun that AJ imagined her walking with a parasol. Her complexion was the gift of Coos Bay, Oregon, the rainiest town in the West. Naomi was Jean’s niece. At the age of six she’d taken a photograph of the funeral service of her pet turtle. It won first prize at the county fair and launched a passion. Now she adjusted the light, edged Harry back, angled Maggie to emphasize her gold choker, then arrived at AJ. She raised his chin, straightened his tie, then flicked an eyelash from his cheek. “You must be the bar mitzvah boy.”

  “Man . . . officially I’m a man, as of noon today.”

  “My mistake.”

  His eyes trailed as she swayed out of frame.

  “Hey, AJ, want to look in the general direction of the camera?” Jean requested. Harry and Maggie stifled giggles.

  AJ loved the hora because it was communal—and didn’t have a lot of steps to remember. The diameter of the circle expanded with each chorus of “Hava Nagila,” a song with the fierce energy to make people lose their inhibitions. AJ clasped his mom’s left hand, while she linked with her mother-in-law, then Fran Stark. As they kicked into high gear, he glanced to the bandstand, where a new singer was taking the microphone. It was so cool that Bing Crosby was performing at his bar mitzvah.

  Amid the mounting madness, Uncle Adolph produced a dining room chair. Tradition demanded that the celebrants hoist the man of the moment above the crowd. His dad raised one leg, while Zukor, Ray, and Frank Freeman raised the others. From his high vantage point AJ spied Naomi
across the room poised to capture the scene with Jean’s Rolleiflex. He waved his arms over his head like the new bantamweight champion of the world, but by the time the chair revolved, she had retired to the gardens.

  “Hava nagila, hava nagila . . .” The song and dance became a whirling dervish. His golf coach replaced Uncle Adolph just before he keeled over, but he was as tall as Mr. Freeman, which forced his father and Ray to lift him higher. The chair wobbled and his father flinched and gripped his left arm. “Dad, are you okay?”

  “I pulled a muscle. I’m fine.” He signaled for Bert Silberdick, their accountant, to sub for him.

  The song exhausted the guests, but not AJ. He dashed like a star halfback through the parade of waiters entering the ballroom with platters of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Naomi was sitting pensively on the steps of the hotel’s honeymoon cottage, blowing perfect smoke rings from her cigarette, when he arrived. “I looked silly up there,” he began sheepishly. “But you can’t avoid it. I bet they carried Moses around like that at his bar mitzvah.”

  “At thirteen everyone thought Moses was an Egyptian prince—including Moses. And you didn’t look silly. You looked happy. I was envious.”

  “Aren’t you happy?”

  Naomi shrugged. “Come on, I want to take your picture.”

  “Again?”

  “For the first time.” She directed him to a doorway where a dim bulb cast a half shadow over his face. “You have your father’s cheekbones and forehead, your mom’s nose and eyes. It’s amazing what an equal blend you are. It all comes down to your chin. If it develops a jut, you’ll look like your mom; if not, your dad. Either way, you’re going to be handsome.”

  “Thanks. I feel better already.”

  “Make fun. I’m shooting a number of boys—sorry, men—your age. Then I’m going to sketch how they’ll turn out. In thirty years I’ll track all of you down and check my predictions.”

  “Can I take a picture of you?” He wanted a memory of this moment.

  “I’m the doctor, not the patient.”

  “Then how will I be able to remember you?”

  Naomi put down her camera. She edged toward AJ, never losing eye contact, then took his face in her hands and kissed him. He’d heard rumors about French kissing but had never tried it. Naomi had, and AJ was used to following a strong woman, so when she opened her mouth, he was barely a beat behind. Soon their tongues touched. She tasted warm and salty. AJ thanked God he’d skipped the Caesar salad. “Are you staying in L.A.?” he asked, coming up for air.

  “Nope. I’m flying to Portland in the morning. And I’m too old for you.” AJ guessed that his moment had passed. She read his mind. “If you’re wondering, it wasn’t the best kiss I’ve had, but it was the best ‘first kiss.’ ”

  Harry stumbled like a drunk around the deserted swimming pool at the far end of the property. He abandoned his theory that he’d dislocated his shoulder because the pain had spread to his chest and his breathing had gone shallow. A wave of nausea engulfed him and he puked into his own distorted reflection in the water. “Calm down!” The shock of his voice echoing through Stone Canyon broke his panic, and he limped back to the reception. But the pressure intensified and he tripped down the flagstone steps, bruising his elbows and ripping a hole in the knee of his tuxedo.

  When he recovered his balance, Harry was back in combat. Someone lurked. “Banzai! Banzai!” A mortar shell rocketed from a palm tree, blowing a hole through him. Harry tumbled and rolled, finally settling on his back. He saw stars—hundreds, thousands. Now that he was off his feet, he felt better, thank God, because he wasn’t ready to leave this earth. There were too many joys to revisit and discover for the first time: playing the Riv on a summer afternoon; laughing till he hurt at the next Hope-Crosby comedy; meeting AJ’s bride; balancing his grandchildren on his knees . . . and making love to the love of his life. He had to find Maggie, to see her coppery hair one more time, to say he could never stop loving her.

  AJ read Naomi’s sigh as a sign that she enjoyed his caress. But just as he ground his body into her, the honking swans broke the mood, so he took her hand to explore why the damn birds wouldn’t shut up. A cluster of hotel guests had gathered near the pond. Two uniformed bellhops sloshed through the water, making their way to a log. Then AJ realized the log was someone doing the dead man’s float. But this guy—and now he could see it was a guy—wasn’t swimming.

  Naomi wanted to take a picture and he didn’t want to be a chicken, so they pushed forward. The bellhops got the man on his feet, but their bodies shielded his identity. People buzzed and ran for help. From inside the ballroom AJ heard the band playing “Did You Ever See a Dream Walking?” Rescuers reached the bank, but the man slipped from their grasp and plunked back into the water. When they pulled him up, he was covered in mud and water lilies. AJ searched for Naomi, but like one of those crime photographers, she was already at the scene.

  Now AJ saw that the victim wore a tuxedo, which meant he was a bar mitzvah guest. He had to find out who so that he could tell his folks. Then he heard a tortured wail from Naomi.

  “What? Who is it?”

  Her scream went silent. When the bellhops flipped the man into the light, AJ understood. Varicose veins crisscrossed his father’s neck, his face was red as if he’d held his breath too long—or not long enough—and there was mucus dripping over his lip, like a kid who’d blown his nose without a tissue. But the horrible thing was that his dad, who was always full of energy, was so still.

  This can’t be. That just looks like him.

  AJ barreled forward, but somebody grabbed him. The rescuer attempting artificial respiration yelled that he needed space. Women screamed. Was one of them his mom? Despite AJ’s thrashing and kicking, the guy held him with a gorilla’s grip. He got so dizzy he couldn’t fight. He fell over, but it took forever to hit the ground. A long fall would kill him, which was okay, because then he could say good-bye to Dad—or be with him forever.

  CHAPTER 9

  The chimes at the front door woke AJ early Sunday morning. He had a sluggish headache and his throat was sore from crying. At least discomfort proved he was alive. The dingdongs threatened to drive him wacko, so he raced down the stairs. No one seemed to be around. He opened the door, expecting a policeman or another doctor.

  “Are you the Jastrow kid?”

  AJ gaped. Was he dreaming? No, the guy in the cap had the right menacing stare and stance. He was definitely . . . “Ben Hogan?”

  “The same. I hear you might give me a good game. Are you ready to play?”

  How could this be?

  “Your father’s going to join us, if that’s okay?”

  Of course—playing with Mr. Hogan was the special present Dad had teased about.

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  “He’s dead . . . my dad’s dead.” It was the first time AJ had said it out loud.

  “Sweet Jesus.” Hogan instinctively removed his golf cap. His face was more gentle and vulnerable than opponents claimed.

  “He had a heart attack last night and drowned.”

  “I’m sorry. I had no idea.” There was no escape shot from this deep rough. “You get a rain check. We’ll play whenever you’re ready.”

  “I don’t think it would be fun anymore—I mean, golf without him.”

  Hogan bent down till they were eye to eye. “I don’t play with just anyone, even if they pay a lot of money. Your pop had to convince me. You know what he said?”

  AJ didn’t want to hear. Dad was gone, that was that.

  “He said you practiced hard like me, digging balls out of the dirt until your hands were blistered. Let me look.” AJ shyly put up his callused palms. “He didn’t lie. But the thing that did the trick was when he said you had heart—more heart than anyone he knew. You’re not going to disappoint him, are you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “That’s better. See you next month.”

  Heart. Honor. And guts. His dad had respected
those qualities above all. AJ remembered Ray saying last night that someone had to pick out clothes to bury Harry in. He went upstairs and poked his head into his parents’ bedroom. Mom was snoring away—an earthquake wouldn’t wake her—so he slipped quietly into the closet and rummaged around. There must have been twenty suits, none of which felt comfortable, so he decided to lay his father to rest in his favorite beige cardigan and brown corduroys.

  An hour before the Jastrow funeral, officials at Forest Lawn scurried to provide folding chairs for the overflow crowd. “You could steal the studio blind this morning,” Frank Freeman reported upon entering the private family room at the back of the chapel. He squeezed his massive arms around AJ. “I wish you could hear the wonderful stories people are telling about your father.”

  They could keep their stories. He chatted politely, then broke away to check the clouds. Why hadn’t he brought an umbrella for himself and his mother? Catching his reflection in the window, AJ reflexively fixed the crooked knot in his tie. He should have learned his father’s technique when he had the chance. People tried to be helpful, but most whispered the obvious: “She’ll be so lonely.” “A boy needs a father.” “It couldn’t have happened at a worse time.”

  The dumbest conversation was between his dad’s secretary and Grandma Esther. Miss Benitez wailed that his father was so young—his death wasn’t possible. But his grandmother said it was inevitable. She explained how her husband, Isaac, had died at forty-nine and that neither one of his two brothers had celebrated a fiftieth birthday. Harry’s grandfather had died at forty-six, and a truck had run over Harry’s brother Martin when he was sixteen. The litany sounded like a stupid Gypsy curse, the whole idea that Jastrow men didn’t live long because they were too good for the world.

  Rabbi Ginsberg sat down beside him. “How are you doing?”

  AJ shrugged. “Okay. The hotel never found my father’s pocket watch.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “They dragged the pond, but it wasn’t there. I think it was stolen. But how could anyone do that? Dad should have it with him.”