“There is something you can do for me, Bam Bam,” I conceded.
“Anything, Mr. Hoag. Just name it.”
“Help me set up an interview with Johnny.”
“I’d be thrilled to.” And he honestly sounded like he would be. “I’ll call you soon as I have the particulars. In fact, you can do it at my office. You’ll come up, meet the gang, I’ll show you around the place—”
“I’ve seen it,” I said, steering him in the general direction of the door.
“You’ve seen the old place. We have brand-new offices. New offices, new regime. You had problems with the old HWA, not the new, I assure you.”
I opened the door for him. “Can’t wait to see it.”
“Say, I also happen to represent Romola, the swimsuit model. Just landed her a major speaking role over at Disney in Ernest Goes to Tampa. Would you care to have dinner with her some evening while you’re out here? Don’t get me wrong—I’m not suggesting she’ll give you a blow job out in the parking lot. She’s just a really fascinating lady. Maybe a group of us could attend a screening together one—”
“I’m afraid I’ll be pretty busy.”
“Sure, sure,” he said, as I politely shoved him out the door. “Oh, hey, you were right about my clutch. I was letting it out too fast.”
“You’re not going to keep following me, are you?”
“I will if you want me to,” he offered.
“Night-night, Bam Bam,” I said, closing the door on him.
I unpacked. My clothes I hung in the closet. My beloved late-fifties Olympia solid steel manual portable, the Mercedes 300SL Gull Wing of typewriters, went on the writing desk along with my notes, my notepads, my personal stereo, my Erroll Garner tapes. My reading matter I placed on the nightstand by the bed. I was working my way through a collection of autobiographical essays by M.F.K. Fisher that season, which is something I do every couple of years to remind myself what good writing is. I tend to forget if I’ve only been reading my own stuff. When I was done unpacking I stripped off my clothes and went into the bathroom. There was a deluxe dressing area in there, outfitted with a television set, telephone, and full-length three-way mirror, which I don’t recommend using if you happen to be naked and over the age of twenty-one. There was an immense tub, a stall shower. I used the shower, scrubbing myself with the Crabtree and Evelyn avocado oil soap I’d brought along to remind me of the way Merilee smelled. The phone rang while I was showering. I didn’t answer it. I was too busy thinking about the plate of chiles rellenos I was going to eat that evening at Chuy’s, a little neighborhood place on Sawtelle and National where they keep the bottles of Dos Equis in a wooden barrel of ice, and where Chuy’s ancient mother makes the soft corn tortillas by hand over an open hearth and serves them to you fresh off the griddle, hot and crisp around the edges. After I’d dried off I stropped Grandfather’s razor and shaved and doused myself with Floris. Then I threw open the bathroom door and padded naked out into the room so as to be cooled by the breeze coming in through the terrace doors. Only there was no breeze coming in. The terrace doors were closed now. And I was not alone.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 2007 by David Handler
978-1-4532-5977-1
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The Woman Who Fell From Grace Page 31