Chapter 137: A Well-Intented Struggle

[Chapter 138: A Well-Intented Struggle]

On Christmas Day, Hawke found himself all alone.

Edward went to be with Deborah, Megan and Caroline had returned to their hometowns for the holidays, and Erica attended a family Christmas gathering. Even Frank from across the street had a date with Salma Hayek.

Opening the window, Hawke grabbed his binoculars. In the empty parking lot, Frank had set up a grill, planning to enjoy a lovely barbecue with Salma.

"This bastard, having a barbecue and not inviting me," Hawke grumbled as he put on his jacket and headed out to cross the street into the parking lot.

Seeing Hawke approach from a distance, Frank stood up behind the grill and pointed the skewer at him, making it clear: "You shameless freeloader, don't even think about coming over for food."

Hawke pretended not to see that and walked over, pulling out a chair and greeting Salma across the table with, "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," Salma replied as she went to fetch utensils and cups.

Frank remarked, "Ignore him, let's eat while he watches."

Salma disregarded him and returned with a set of utensils and a few bottles of beer.

"Thanks," Hawke said as he accepted it, popping open a beer and addressing Frank again, "Don't be so stingy. The grill, the meat you're cooking, and these beers were all bought by me."

Frank shamelessly retorted, "You gave them to me; they're all mine."

Still, Hawke was already seated, and Frank didn't push him away any further.

Salma, curious, asked, "Do you guys act like this all the time?"

"More than that. He's a real bastard!" Hawke, though not like Savior, went for the metaphorical jugular with Frank. "I was spending the night with my girl, and he had the gall to shoot a slingshot at my bedroom window."

Salma turned to look at Frank, surprised. "You actually did that?"

Frank, furious, grabbed a fire poker, pointing at Hawke, "This bastard did it first."

Hawke defended himself, saying, "I did that because you stole my slingshot."

Not wanting to endure the two buttheads going back and forth, Salma interrupted, "Is the barbecue ready yet? How much longer do we have to wait?"

Frank grumbled, "It'll be done soon."

Salma changed the subject and asked Hawke, "Your studio specializes in PR, right? Have you taken on any business during this award season?"

"We accepted a big job," Hawke answered vaguely, "and we're basically finished."

Salma asked curiously, "Don't tell me we're competitors?"

Hawke, confused, replied, "You're up for an award too?"

"Yes," Salma said, "It's for the movie Frida, a biopic about a Mexican painter. I'm aiming for an Oscar nomination for Best Actress."

Hawke remarked, "I'm working on a series."

He glanced at Frank, suddenly connecting the dots regarding why Salma was hanging around with that washed-up old jerk.

Last time, Hawke had wondered why Salma would come to seek out Frank. It couldn't just be for Frank's desolate yard.

Turns out it was all about the awards season.

Given Frank's age, he was among the most core old white male members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, the Oscar voting body.

Moreover, once someone was a member, it was a lifetime position; the first to be expelled, Harvey Weinstein, wouldn't have his day for many years to come.

Frank surely still had some old friends in the industry.

Let's just say that Salma Hayek was acting in perfect alignment with the usual Hollywood starlet mentality.

It's all about the Oscars -- every resource gets utilized, including their bodies.

Frank served up the barbecue.

Salma went back to her RV to bring out some delicious Mexican dishes she had prepared.

The three of them ate, drank, and chatted, even discussing the Hollywood awards season.

As it approached December 31, ballots for the Oscars would be sent out.

Frank pointed at Hawke, saying, "For the sake of fairness, it'll be Hawke who fills out mine."

Salma lifted her glass and clinked it with Hawke's. "Remember to vote for Frida."

Hawke took a sip of beer, feeling helpless. "This is serious Oscar voting, and you all treat it so casually?"

"What's the best way to vote?" Frank nonchalantly asked. "Should we find a sheep to do it?"

Hawke shot him the finger.

Salma turned and asked, "Did you make that call for me?"

Thinking about his own unblemished patch of grass that had been so thoroughly nurtured back to life, Frank said, "The call's been made, but I can't promise those old boys will cooperate. They don't owe me anything."

"That sounds fine," Salma said, satisfied, as she raised her glass. "Here's to both of you."

After finishing her drink, Hawke casually remarked, "Every line of work has its troubles."

Salma added, "Especially for women. There's a workplace rule -- women who face harassment from their bosses can't complain; they have to endure."

Hawke, having heard plenty from Caroline, Johnson, and Josh Hartnett, chimed in, "In Hollywood, it's the same for men."

Frank interjected, "Don't just talk about men; those underaged kids are the same thing."

"You wouldn't have done anything wrong, would you?" Hawke scrutinized Frank.

Frank scoffed, "I'm a normal man who likes normal pretty women, like Salma."

He laughed coldly, raising his voice, "Don't compare me to those sickos who are obsessed with studying hairless black holes; I find them disgusting."

Hawke handed him a fresh beer, "You bastard, you can still be considered a man."

Salma had felt her own experiences: "Although not as glorious as in past years, you are indeed a man."

With the mood as it is, the King of Jerks stepped in, "Think back ten years: I had Julia Roberts in one arm and Cameron Diaz in the other, and on my knees was Marisa Tomei with Robin Wright behind me. With just one phone call, I could bring in Spielberg's two goddaughters..."

Hawke couldn't stand this level of boasting. "Is your ex among them?" He put Frank back in his place, "I jotted all the names down; let the Savior try his luck."

Frank shook his head, "Stop asking for my help in the future."

Salma discovered that these two had a unique way of interacting.

Looking at Hawke, she shifted the topic, "Your studio doesn't primarily focus on business strategy consulting, does it? Could you help me create a plan?"

Frank cautioned, "He charges a lot; your little paycheck wouldn't cover it."

"Just offer a general idea and I won't charge," Hawke remarked, partly for altruism and partly to get back at Frank. "If you get nominated for Best Actress, your fame will reach new heights; why not marry a rich guy?"

He especially noted, "There've been plenty of examples in Hollywood, like Grace Kelly."

Salma thought that was a good idea: "I wouldn't think about relationships here in America but could check out the scene in Europe -- after all, there's a whole big ocean separating us. Hollywood stars still have a bit of a glow..."

"Wait, wait!" Frank shouted, "I'm not dead yet, and you two are discussing this?"

Hawke couldn't resist the urge to pile on, "Can you provide Salma with the prosperous life she wants? Can you help her win the Oscar? If you two got together, she'd have to take care of you, an old man."

Frank took a skewer of meat and slammed it onto the wooden table, exclaiming, "Get out, get out! I don't welcome you two!"

He stormed back into his RV.

Hawke and Salma helped themselves to Frank's barbecue, casually chatting.

Not long after, Frank returned carrying a stack of newspapers from his RV and threw one at Hawke. "Read the paper, eat less."

Hawke pointed at him, not saying a word.

Starving, Frank hurried to eat his own food.

As Hawke flipped through the papers, he found that this stack held mainly entertainment tabloids, the front pages buzzing with the latest about movies and personnel during award season.

The second page of Hollywood Life published a gossip piece related to their earlier conversation.

Hawke read attentively for a while.

Parents of several child actors had disclosed to the media that the director and producer Sterling Van Wagenen, known for his work on Convicts and Alan and Naomi, had abused their children.

These kids included both boys and girls.

Hawke showed the article to Frank.

Frank glanced over it. "It's not rare in Hollywood; don't think child stars are safe from it. Those sickos in human skin don't have any limits."

He added, "If everything's counted, you paparazzi are a hundred times more noble than them."

Hawke flipped through other newspapers, noticing how outside of a single tabloid, no formal entertainment publications had covered the incident.

Seeing that Salma had finished her meal, she volunteered to gather up the utensils, saying, "I have things to do this afternoon; I'll be leaving now."

Frank didn't respond, casually waving her off.

Hawke got ready to leave as well.

"Not having a drink with me?" Frank asked.

Hawke said, "I'm heading to the shooting range to practice."

Right now, he needed to blow off some steam.

...

In Brentwood, Edward drove his Cadillac, returning from shopping at Deborah's house.

As the car parked in the driveway, Deborah exited the villa, wrapping her arms around Edward's neck, giving him a warm kiss.

For a moment, the two felt a rush of emotions, and Edward's hands started to wander lower.

Edward asked, "What about Indio?"

Hearing their son's name, Deborah suddenly remembered she had something serious to discuss, whispering, "I found something out, and it's not good."

Pulling her into the car, Edward asked, "Is this about Indio?"

Deborah nodded, "He went out for a classmate's gathering this afternoon, and when I picked him up, he reeked of those leaves."

Considering Indio's age, Edward questioned, "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely," Deborah asserted, "I lived with Robert Downey Jr. long enough to recognize those smells familiar."

She felt anxious. "This is a bad start, and I'm worried that Indio will end up like his father..."

"Don't panic," Edward comforted her. His mind wasn't the sharpest, and after a moment's thought, he added, "Maybe Indio is just curious and won't try it again."

Deborah shook her head, "His grandfather was like that, and so was his father; I'm afraid he'll take the same path. When normal people get involved with that stuff, their minds turn to mush."

Having seen too many of such cases in Compton, Edward understood the enormous impact of environment. He asked, "Did Downey ever use it in front of Indio?"

Deborah nodded. "Yes, more than once."

Edward wrapped his arms around Deborah. "You, as a mother, have it hard; things are too tough on you -- this is all Downey's fault."

Those words struck a chord with Deborah. "That bastard deserved to die!" She worried about their son. "I can't talk to Indio about this; doesn't he see you as a good friend? Could you talk to him?"

Edward wasn't the most knowledgeable in these matters, but at that moment, he had to summon his courage and said, "Okay, I'll talk to him."

"He's in the entertainment room," Deborah instructed.

Edward exited the car and headed directly into the villa to the entertainment room.

...

Indio was busy playing video games, and when he saw Edward, he exclaimed, "Wanna play with me?"

"Sure," Edward agreed, playing a few rounds with him. Once Indio had his fill, Edward suggested, "After sitting for so long, we need to get moving."

Indio caught onto what he meant and stood up to stretch. "Want to have a match?"

Edward mimicked him and stretched. "Let's hit the gym."

They changed clothes and put on protective gear, standing on a thick sponge mat.

Indio lightly tapped his helmet, asking, "The usual rules?"

"We'll try something new," Edward explained. "If you kick me, I'll answer a question. If I kick you, you answer one."

Indio bragged, "I'm way more agile than you."

Feigning a lack of response, Edward set himself up for Indio's kick.

Indio quickly deceived him and aimed a kick, nailing him on the leg.

"Yay!" Indio celebrated as he raised his fists, asking, "Why do we have photos of my mom and dad hanging in so many rooms?"

Edward was taken aback for a moment but quickly recovered with some wit, saying, "Because I want to thank your dad."

Indio replied, "I'm going for an attack now."

This time, Edward dodged Indio's kick back and responded by knocking him down.

As Indio got back up, Edward inquired, "Did you have any fun at the party your classmates threw?"

Indio looked around, noting his mom was absent, and whispered, "Somebody brought this weird smoke. Everyone said it was intense, and I tried it."

Edward asked, "How did it feel?"

Indio looked pained as he replied, "It felt awful -- really awful."

"If it feels bad, don't try it again," Edward advised. "The video games we play and the Taekwondo we practice all bring joy, right?"

Indio thought about it and nodded. "Alright, I won't try it again."

Suddenly he noticed something wasn't quite right, "Hey, you cheated! You only beat me once but are asking way too many questions."

Edward waved him forward: "Come on; I'll show you my skills."

Deborah appeared at the door just then, watching through the window as she saw her son getting knocked down by Edward time and again. Instead of intervening, she smiled secretly, having heard all that Edward said to Indio.

Edward meant well.

Once those two finished their practice, they both headed for a shower. Deborah quietly followed Edward, hugging him while saying, "Thank you; without you, I wouldn't know how to deal with this."

After enjoying the thrill of taking down Downey's son and now holding Downey's wife, Edward felt great. "It was just a small thing; I could fix it easily."

Deborah was particularly satisfied with him, saying, "Last time we left the cemetery, you mentioned you wanted Downey to see how happy I am now?"

Edward flashed a wide grin. "I want him to know you're well taken care of by me."

Deborah, already at odds with Downey, said, "Let's pick a time to visit Downey, when not many are around, and show him how happy I am!"

And Edward naturally agreed.

...

In West Los Angeles, at the Artel Mountain Shooting Range.

Hawke tidied up his firearms, changed his clothes and exited the locker room, walking into the gun shop.

He spotted the familiar shop owner, Palmer, and asked, "Has my gun arrived?"

"It has, just a moment," Palmer replied.

He opened the back cabinet, pulled out a walnut gun case, eased the clasp to one side, and gestured for Hawke to come closer.

Inside lay a special commemorative M1911 handgun and two magazines.

Hawke had custom ordered the commemorative model for collection and display purposes far beyond practicality.

The gun's body was engraved with design patterns, the grip was made of century-old walnut, and parts were silver-plated; it also bore a unique commemorative serial number from the factory.

This was a gift for Erica.

To Hawke, guns were weapons. But to Erica, they represented culture.

They had talked about that model during their chats, so Hawke remembered it.

After checking the handgun, he paid the remaining balance, and Palmer packed the gun away in its specialized bag.

Upon Hawke's return, Palmer handed him the bag and mentioned, "If you need anything, just let me know."

"Thanks," Hawke said as he tipped the man, shouldered the bag, and left.

...

Once outside, he placed the bag in the car, took out his phone, and called Erica: "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," Erica responded, her tone shifting to a pleading manner. "I'm so sorry you have to spend Christmas alone."

Hawke said, "Practicing alone just feels like something is missing."

Erica replied, double-meaning, "I want to practice too, but I really can't get away..."

Hawke added, "No worries, I've prepared a special gift for you, one that you'll get when we see each other."

"I can't wait," Erica's voice carried genuine excitement. "I've never looked forward to a Christmas gift as much as I am now."

Just then, Hawke received a call, replying, "I have to take this; someone is looking for me."

"Alright," Erica said as they hung up.

...

After checking the caller ID, he saw that it was Josh Hartnett. As he hesitated, wondering if he should call him back, the phone rang again.

"Hey, Hawke! Merry Christmas!" Josh said, then asked, "Do you have some time?"

Hawke countered, "Is there something you need?"

Josh continued, "Will and I wanted to discuss something with you regarding the business, mainly introducing a new project."

Hawke recalled that Will was Josh's manager and asked, "New project?"

"Yes, it's about my upcoming movie," Josh explained.

Hawke assumed it was about film marketing. "I have a meeting room at the Beverly Business Club; when you arrive, just mention my name."

"Sure," Josh agreed.

...

Inside the shop, a Mexican man approached Palmer, asking, "Are these the two best shooters in the club?"

"Yep, Erica and Hawke are recognized as the top shooters here," Palmer confirmed.

The Mexican man said, "I'd like to get introduced sometime."

Palmer asked, "Why, looking to challenge them to a shooting competition?"

"Can't I?" the Mexican man replied, confidence radiating from him. "I'm pretty good at shooting."

"Let's wait until the next time they come around," Palmer said.

*****

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