The lights dim. His theme music, The Aquarium by Camille Saint-Saëns, plays him out to commercial.
It's a beautiful piece. Haunting. When the show first hit the top ten, the rather arcane composition by a nineteenth century French Romantic became a surprise hit on iTunes.
After the break, he will return with a new client/subject/mark/pigeon. Dodie Betteridge from Burbank. Looks like a nice young woman. Nervous, but that will only add to the effect. His personal assistant, Brandon Horowitz, makes his way on to the blinding white set. He hates the sight of Brandon.
"Poker tonight, Mr. Jane," says Brandon, smoothly sliding some notes about Dodie under his nose. Patrick rolls his eyes. He'd played poker six nights in a row. "At a stunning place up in the hills, Mr. Jane. We're talking movie star money. And you'll be happy to hear, dress is casual." Brandon gives him a nasty little smile and disappears off the set.
After the show, he leaves the studio and hops into Paola Agnelli's idling Tesla Roadster. The top is down. Paola, his manager, looks exactly like what she is, an aging Italian ex-model/aristocrat. She pulls out and merges into traffic.
"What's that?" He eyes with dread the garment bags heaped in the back. "Tuxedos, shirts, shoes." He shakes his head. "This means more gaming with more stuffed shirts?" "Can't wear the same tux two nights in a row, can we, Patrick?" Her cigarette tinged Italian accent makes her seem like she's charming. He grins, "How about one night in a row? To wear all this, I'll be forced to change in the men's room between games." She's amused. "You have to look prosperous." She tucks one of his curls behind his ear. "You know that, darling."
Drawing back from her fingers, he says, "Why don't you give adorable a rest and tell me what you have in store for me, Paola?" Paola seems relieved to get down to business. "Well, since the show's on hiatus for two weeks, we've booked you for one night only performances in Paris, London and Berlin." She counts on her fingers, "And while you're in Europe, you will be gambling at Casino de Monte Carlo, The Claremont Club in London, then Casino Baden Baden. "Oh I see, fourteen lovely days and what will seem like an eternity of disgusting nights," he says.
She continues breezily. "Oh...and Patrick, do you play backgammon?" He rolls his eyes. She laughs, "As if I had to ask. That will open up a whole new revenue stream among Middle Easterners."
"Wait. Where are we headed?" He asks as she exits the freeway. Paola keeps her eyes on the road, "Musso & Frank's." He exhales and rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. "I don't want to go out," he moans, "just drop me home."
"The agreement was you make money, Patrick, love." He adjusts his seat and with a slow buzz, dips back out of her line of vision. "And that means people should see you. Visibility is key." He laughs to himself. Paola doesn't get the visual joke he's playing. Lisbon would get it and smack him and laugh. Paola continues, "And the more famous you get, the more money you'll make. Rich people will want to speak to their loved ones. And other rich people will want to gamble with you, no? Lots of whales, yes?" Patrick thinks, she is truly a master of the banal. They drive in silence.
He picks up his cellphone. Presses one on speed dial. He gets voice mail. "Lisbon, it's me. It's not like I'm a criminal or anything. Call me back."
Paola pulls the car up to valet parking. As they get out, she says "You know there's no policy against your having a relationship with Teresa. No need for you to be lonely. Invite her to come to Europe with you. Give me her sizes and I'll have the concierge at the Ritz take care of her."
There was nothing he'd like more. Giving Teresa some empty glamour from the man who loved her. The man who'd told her so. The man who'd bought a ring and proposed. But since he'd given up on finding Red John and gone back to his former profession, she avoided him. She wanted an explanation of why he'd done it and he couldn't come up with one that satisfied her.
Sometimes she'd call him back and sometimes they'd have lunch. He'd asked her to the Oscars, the Emmys and the Grammys, and she'd said no. The rest of the team gave him the pleasure of letting him share with them. Van Pelt and Rigsby had borrowed his beach house for a week and used his name to get tables in restaurants. Cho had actually come to the Grammys with him. But Teresa wanted nothing from him. None of his filthy lucre.
Patrick gives the waiting paparazzi outside the restaurant the requisite three different smiles and a wave. Once that beast is fed, they continue into the restaurant.
They're seated at Drew Wilentz's table. A big moose of a man in pre-shredded jeans, and a cashmere sweater, Patrick likes him even less than Paola. As soon as he orders his drink, Patrick asks, "How much have I made so far this year?" Paola's eyes roll into her head as she calculates. Drew immediately says, "Twelve mil and change. If you keep delivering at your present rate, you should do twenty-two, easy." And if you get that voice over job for BMW and you do The Glenlivet ad in Japan, we could be talking thirty." Drew raises his glass to Patrick. "Jane Productions is our best performer."
Patrick says quietly, "And what if Jane Productions did less well?" Drew wrinkles his brow. "What are we talking about when we say less well?" Patrick stirs his drink by pushing the ice around. "Let's say, ten per cent less well." Drew says, "Ten could be put down to the vicissitudes of life." Patrick takes a sip. "Fifteen?" Drew says, "You'd be pushing it." Patrick says, "Twenty?" Paola looks scared. Drew and Patrick are eyeballing each other. Drew says, "At that point, the parent company would have to intervene." Patrick tosses back the rest of his drink. "Patrick, Cut Iron would view that as unacceptable." Patrick signals the waiter for another one. "He'd kill her, Patrick, as per our agreement."