Free Where the Truth Lies by Holmes Rupert

a vodka on the rocks. This other man was tall, trim, and dressed in colors that might have been too bright were they not muted by the fine quality of their fabric and design. He gave me a quick glance of such focus and strength that my eyes were caught completely off guard, allowing him to penetrate the first veil of defense I normally wear in public. The smile he tossed me brought a silly, reflexive smirk to my lips, which I quickly tried to convert into a demure expression. But by then he’d slid smoothly into his seat.
    I was to learn shortly that the Eurasian man on my right was named Reuben and that the older man in front of him was a powerful Hollywood agent named Irv Fleischmann.
    I did not have to wait a moment more than the very first instant I saw him to know that the man seated directly in front of me was Lanny Morris.
    NINE
    In point of fact, it wasn’t as remarkable as it might at first seem that I now found myself seated one row behind the gentleman whose intimate memoirs I’d been perusing only two days earlier. The almost unjustifiable expense of a first-class ticket (there being no discounts or deals to be had for such a luxury) and the limited number of wide-bodies in service made those twelve to twenty seats on a jumbo jet quite the exclusive club, one where mere moneyed mortals frequently found themselves mingling with the Gods.
    Whenever anyone flew first-class to the opposite coast, friends would ask upon their arrival, “Well, did you see anyone famous?” The answer would invariably be something along the lines of “As a matter of fact, both Ann Jillian and that nice Larry Blyden were on our flight and they couldn’t have been nicer. They chatted with us while we waited to get off the plane.” Since only American, TWA, and United flew nonstop between New York and L.A. (and not all of those flights were the preferred luxury liners), the mathematical odds that a celebrity would be in your midst if you flew first-class transcontinental on a jumbo jet were in fact quite good. Thus it was perhaps not quite so incredibly miraculous that Lanny, his manager Irv Fleischmann, and his valet Reuben were currently positioned at twelve, one, and three o’clock respectively to me.
    I was now dimly recalling an interview in which much credit was given to Lanny for insisting that his Filipino butler travel in the same class and stay in the same hotels as he did. It had occurred to me even when I read the tidbit that this also kept Reuben on call and close at (Lanny’s) hand all hours of the day. No hiding out with some Mindinao Minnie back in row 23 of economy for good old Reuby Baby, nosiree. Lanny’s attendant’s attentiveness was quickly verified for me when the captain turned off theNO SMOKING sign some twenty seconds after the wheels left the ground, as was the general policy of most airlines. In almost the same instant, Reuben leaned forward and proffered a cigarette case and gun-metal Zippo lighter to Lanny, who reached behind him for the case without looking back. He simply knew the items would be there. I also recalled reading that the reason Lanny often had Reuben carry his cigarette case and lighter for him was that he couldn’t abide having any bulges in his pants that did not originate with him—joke. His pants had no pockets and were, like Reuben himself, made to order. To be fair, I must assert there was nothing haughty or imperious about Lanny’s manner. He didn’t snap his fingers. He said, “Thanks” in a nice voice as he handed the lighter and case back to Reuben. This was, I guess, simply how they operated, and I’d read that Reuben was extremely well paid for his dedication to the maintenance of Mr. Morris, who was now seated a tantalizing forty-one inches in front of me.
    Could you tell a great deal about a man simply by staring at the back of his chair for forty-five minutes? No, not really. The seats had high backs, so not even the nape of Lanny’s neck or his ears offered themselves up for any