The Walk

by Lee Goldberg

  “You like it?” Buck asked.

  “I may have misjudged you, Buck.”

  “Now all the things I’ve done that piss you off don’t seem quite so bad, maybe even redeemable.”

  Redeemable? Since when did Buck use words like that?

  “You see a side of me that’s thoughtful, sensitive, what you might call likeable,” Buck said. “Am I right?”

  Marty stopped walking. Redeemable? Likeable? Buck wasn’t talking about himself. He was talking about a character.

  “Everything you just said about yourself was pure bullshit, wasn’t it?” Marty said. “You don’t believe a word of it.”

  “Why do I have to believe that whiny, self-serving horseshit if you buy it and it works for the character?”

  “What character?”

  “My character, asshole. The hero of the fucking series. By the way, you were right, you do give great notes.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That speech you just made, the ‘I’m an average guy’ thing, fucking brilliant. The way you gave yourself notes on yourself, that was inspiring shit. I saw right then what you were looking for, so I reworked everything.”

  “Reworked what?”

  “The character, the whole fucking series. I made it richer, right off the top of my head.”

  This is unreal, Marty thought. The hands-down winner for the nightmare pitch of all time. “Why does every conversation we have always end up being about you and a TV series? I’m not interested in doing a show about you. I never was and I never will be. Got it? Comprendo? Can we fucking move on?”

  “You asked me, remember? You’re the one who started the fucking conversation.”

  “I didn’t ask you to pitch me a series about yourself.”

  “Then what were you asking me about?”

  “You, Buck. I wanted to know about you.”

  “Why the fuck would you want to know that?”

  “You’re right,” Marty replied. “My mistake.”

  Marty was about to start walking again when he saw a man in a white chef’s apron sweeping broken glass and stucco outside a small, ivy-covered restaurant, the vines all that was holding the building together.

  “Oh, shit,” Marty whispered.

  Buck followed his gaze. “What?”

  “That’s Jean-Marc Lofficier, the famous chef. He owns La Guerre, the restaurant over there. I can’t believe I nearly walked right by it.”

  “You hungry already?”

  “No. I can’t let him see me like this. Let’s go south one block, we can come back to Melrose later.”

  Buck stared at Marty, incredulous. “You’re afraid of a cook? What’s he gonna do, char your fucking cheeseburger?”

  “You don’t understand. That is one of the top five power restaurants in this city. It’s where everybody at Paramount does lunch. If Jean-Marc sees me like this, I may never get a table there again.”

  “So fuck him, eat somewhere else. Look, there’s a spaghetti place across the street.”

  “Someday, Buck, this mess is going to be cleaned up and we’re all going to have to go back to work. As stupid as it sounds, in my business where you eat and where you sit when you eat is important. If Jean-Marc sees me like this, looking like I pissed my pants and swam through a cesspool, that’s all he’ll ever see anytime he hears my name. I’ll never get a reservation. And if I can’t get a table at La Guerre, I can’t do business.”

  Buck looked back at Lofficier, who was bending over to hold his dustpan as he swept the trash into it.

  “No problem,” Buck said. “I’ll introduce his face to my knee a few times and we can move on.”

  Marty grabbed Buck just as the bounty hunter was starting towards the chef. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think a beating is necessary.”

  “If the guy is lying on the ground, choking on his teeth, he won’t notice you walking by. Even if he does see you, so what? He’ll look as bad as you, maybe worse.”

  “Let’s just go down one street.”

  Buck reluctantly followed Marty into the fashionable, residential neighborhood south of Melrose.

  “Philosophically,” Buck said, “I’ve got a big fucking problem running from anybody.”

  “You’re not, I am. And it’s not exactly running. It’s avoiding.”

  “I got a big fucking problem avoiding anybody.”

  They were walking past the entry-level residences of moneyed Hancock Park when Marty began to wonder if this was such a wise move. The houses on the tree-lined, leafy street were miniaturized versions of the grandiose estates several blocks south. These were homes for the almost-millionaires, the ones with teething kids, leased German cars, and nightmares about turning forty. This was where a lot of studio executives, producers, and directors lived.

  What if one of them saw him? Every time he gave them a note, they would remember how he smelled today and snicker maliciously.

  So Marty kept his eyes on the ground, just in case someone he knew was among the people seeking shelter in their Ranger Rovers or gathered on their perfectly manicured lawns with their requisite golden retrievers, eating lunch out of Laura Ashley picnic baskets they bought for evening concerts at the Hollywood Bowl.

  Thinking of the Bowl reminded Marty that he did know someone who lived here, a friend in fact. He looked up in time to realize that, as fate would have it, he was just a few doors away from writer/producer Josh Redden’s place.

  Josh lived on McCadden in one of those little Spanish houses with the red tile roofs and white plaster walls. Marty had been there two years ago for party celebrating the second season premiere of Manchine . A short time after that, Marty and Beth were invited to the Hollywood Bowl with Josh and his wife, who had a box there. They sat through a couple hours of classical music, dining on Wolfgang Puck frozen pizzas and airplane wine.

  Marty could turn around and run from Josh, but then he’d have to go back up to Melrose and take his chances with Jean-Marc.

  There was also another issue. Did he really want to tell Buck they had to flee from somebody else?

  Hell no.

  So Marty weighed the pluses and minuses while pretending to stop and tie his shoe.

  The way he figured it, he had some power over Josh, but none over Jean-Marc. There was little Josh could do to hurt Marty, even though he, unlike Jean-Marc, was in the TV business. But Jean-Marc could do more to damage Marty’s status and influence with one unfavorable table seating or refused reservation than Josh could ever do.

  So it was decided. He’d take his chances on running into Josh.

  Better yet, rather than risk being seen, of being revealed, he’d take charge and seek Josh out and, by drawing attention to himself, control the situation and how he was perceived.

  Yes, Marty decided, that was perfect. By not hiding, but confronting Josh, he seized the moment and shaped it, and its meaning, himself.

  Besides, Josh was about his size, maybe the producer could loan Marty some fresh clothes so he wouldn’t smell, and look, like a latrine any more. Marty would still arrive in Calabasas dirty, but not nearly as bad as he was now, reeking of transient piss, rotting food, and Hawaiian Tropic, among other things.

  “Are you tying your shoe,” Buck asked, “or fucking it? Let’s go.”

  “I want to stop by and visit a friend. He lives around here,” Marty rose to his feet, pleased with himself and his sound reasoning. “Did you ever watch Manchine?’”

  “The show about the guy who was half man, half machine?”

  “Yeah. My friend Josh wrote and produced it.”

  “I remember it,” Buck said. “The guy was always sticking his finger into computers, blenders, telephones, and shit to make ’em work.”

  “That was his super power. He could meld mentally with any machine he touched and control it with his thoughts.”

  “Big fucking deal. I can do the same thing just by using the on-and-off switch.”

  Marty ignored the dig a
nd studied the homes as they turned the corner and walked up McCadden. Most of the houses on the street were built in the late twenties and represented an eclectic mix of contrasting styles, from the turrets and balconies of French Norman architecture to the old-money formality, columns and brick of American Georgian.

  Rather than detract from the stateliness of the neighborhood, inexplicably this mix only enhanced it. Such starkly contrasting styles would never be allowed where Marty lived. Architectural homogeneity was strictly enforced to maintain elegance and property values. Yet even now, with many of these homes decimated or badly damaged, the neighborhood somehow managed to keep its elegance and rarified air. Perhaps it had more to do with the impeccably trimmed hedges, unbelievably green lawns, and sparkling European cars.

  The first thing Marty noticed about Josh’s house was the “For Sale” sign in the front lawn. The sign was standing straight and undamaged, the house was not. It had tipped to one side, spilling its red tile roof and several walls onto the BMW in the driveway.

  Josh and Nora were lying on chaise lounges beside a small tent and a bonfire pit they’d dug into their freshly-mowed lawn. All the personal belongings they’d salvaged were scattered around them in moving boxes and bulging suitcases.

  Nora’s left arm was in a blood-stained, make-shift sling and her face was a sickly pale. Marty couldn’t remember whether she was a teacher or worked in an art gallery.

  Josh’s head was wrapped in a bloody gauze and his right eye was swollen shut. It also looked like he might have broken his nose. Something must have fallen on his head in the quake, but Josh seemed alert, even if he hadn’t noticed Marty and Buck standing in front of him yet.

  “I’m so relieved to see the two of you are okay,” Marty said as he approached. Josh and Nora looked up at him, clearly not recognizing him. “It’s me, Martin Slack.”

  They still stared at him. They seemed confused.

  “Don’t feel bad if you have trouble recognizing me, I barely recognize myself,” Marty laughed awkwardly, the joviality entirely forced. “This is my friend, Buck.”

  They looked through Buck as if he wasn’t there, and turned their attention back to Marty, clearly accepting who he was and that he was, indeed, standing there.

  “What are you doing here, Marty?” Josh asked.

  The producer didn’t seem nearly as enthused as Marty expected him to be, and it threw him.

  “I was worried about you,” Marty replied.

  Josh shared a look with his wife, then turned back to Marty. “When, exactly, did you start worrying?”

  “I was walking by just now, and I remembered you lived here, and thought I should check up on you, make sure you’re okay.”

  “Now you’re concerned,” Nora said pointedly. “How nice.”

  “We’re fine, Marty,” Josh sighed. “Thanks for stopping by. Say hello to Beth for us.”

  “I was hoping you could do me a small favor. I was downtown when the quake hit so I’ve got to walk home. To Calabasas. As you can see, I’ve been already been through a lot.”

  “You want to borrow the car?” Nora nodded toward the driveway. “Be our guest.”

  “Actually, all I really need is a fresh shirt and a clean pair of pants.” Marty would have asked for some shoes, too, but he could see Josh’s feet were smaller than his.

  Josh scratched at a fleck of dried blood on his cheek. “What you’re saying, basically, is you’d like the shirt off my back.”

  “Any shirt will do,” Marty forced a smile, assuming Josh was making joke. Or at least hoping he was. “I just don’t want to go home looking like this. I smell like someone pissed on me.”

  “Good,” Josh leaned forward now, his face reddening with anger. “Now you know how I’ve felt every day for the last two years, you son-of-a-bitch.”

  That took Marty by surprise, and Buck loved it, a big grin on his face.

  “What did I ever do to you?” Marty asked Josh.

  “Nothing, Marty. Absolutely nothing.”

  “I thought we were friends.”

  “Bullshit. I thought we were friends. But I was wrong. As soon as Manchine was canceled, I never heard from you again.”

  “You know how it is,” Marty said, “you get busy. I got a lot of shows in production.”

  “And did you recommend your friend Josh for any of them? Did you ever invite your friend Josh in to pitch pilots? Did you ever return a single call from your friend Josh?”

  Marty didn’t know what to say because the answers to Josh’s questions were obvious. It was like challenging the existence of gravity. Josh was challenging the natural laws of the television business.

  It wasn’t personal. But once a show is canceled, the talent on it are tainted with failure, at least for a while. Marty would look foolish arguing that the producer of a flop show last year was the perfect guy to run a new show this season. Who’s going to get excited about that? As far as returning calls and having lunch goes, Marty’s obligation was to the guys with shows on-the-air. That meant that people without shows got put off indefinitely. Friendship didn’t figure in to it.

  But it had been a long time since Josh took an unwanted hiatus. Maybe he’d forgotten what it was like.

  “You know how it is,” Marty said, as sympathetically as he could. “You’d just come off a couple years on a marginally-rated show. We needed a breather. I’m sure you did, too. But you never stopped being my friend.”

  “Two years, Marty. That’s how long I haven’t worked. Why do you think I’m selling my house? In another month, I would have been living in this tent anyway. Thanks to you. And now you want the shirt off my back, too?”

  “It’s not me you’re mad at,” Marty said, “it’s the business.”

  “We used to talk on the phone every day. We ate lunch together. You’ve been to my home. We’ve gone to concerts together. And as soon as my show is canceled, you don’t want to hear from me any more. That’s not the business, Marty. That’s you.”

  “Boo-fucking-hoo,” Buck snorted. “What kind of pussy are you? Your show sucked, so you suck. End of story.” Buck elbowed Marty hard in the side. “Can we fucking go now?”

  “Yeah,” Marty said, then turned to Josh. “I’m sorry things haven’t worked out for you.”

  “No you’re not,” Josh settled back into his chaise lounge. “Because every writer who fails makes you feel better about being a failure yourself.”

  It was exactly that kind of on-the-nose, preachy dialogue that made Josh’s writing so flat. Now Marty felt justified not returning his calls. That, and the fact that what Josh said was absolutely true.

  “See you around,” Marty walked away.

  They were mid-way up the block, nearly back to Melrose, when Buck spoke up.

  “So that loser was one of your fucking friends.”

  “Yep,” Marty replied.

  “What the hell are your enemies like?”

  Marty was beginning to wonder if there was really any difference.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Doctors

  11:12 a.m. Wednesday

  West of La Brea, Melrose became the self-consciously funky fashion center of Los Angeles before morphing, just as self-consciously, into the high-end, home decorating district as the avenue crossed San Vicente.

  Marty and Buck were in the heart of the funky stretch, where stores with names like Wasteland, Armageddon, No Problem, Devastation, and Redemption competed in Marty’s mind as the Most Tragically Symbolic.

  But the greatest accomplishment of these fashion-sellers wasn’t their prescience at picking business names but their skillful repackaging of thrift store hand-me-downs and garage sale castoffs. They discovered you could slap the word vintage on a ratty t-shirt, a rusted refrigerator, a dented Pontiac, or an old pair of reading glasses and suddenly it wasn’t an out-dated, beat-up, broken piece of crap; it was stylish. It was hot. It was cutting edge. Vintage clothes, vintage furniture, vintage records, vintage jewelry, vintage cars, ev
en vintage food, in the guise of a fifties burger stand, could all be found here.

  Vintage stuff wasn’t all that was hot on Melrose. Marty was surprised to see that an upscale porn emporium, selling ointments, videos, vibrators, chains, condoms, handcuffs, inflatable women, and anything else that might come handy in the bedroom, was doing a brisk business.

  Obviously, no earthquake kit would be complete without a couple dildos.

  Buck stopped to look at two mannequins, still standing in the shattered window of a clothing store that once offered “Goth Babe ensembles” and “butt pirate duds.” The female mannequin was dressed in an Edwardian dress with a seatbelt corset. The male mannequin wore a crushed velvet pirate shirt and leopard-print tuxedo jacket.

  “What kind of fucking freak wears that shit?” Buck asked.

  But Marty was more interested in the store next door, which sold old jeans, old shirts, and new Doc Martens-heavy, no-bullshit shoes that would be perfect for a post-quake journey over buckled asphalt. And a clean shirt, no matter how many people had worn it before, looked pretty good to him right now, too.

  Marty stepped through the broken window into the store, wading through the piles of clothes on the floor.

  “What are you looking for?” Buck asked.

  “Some clean clothes and a new pair of shoes. See if you can find a size twelve.”

  Buck drew his gun. “The hell I will.”

  Marty looked at him wearily. “What are you going to do, shoot me again?”

  “It’s what I do to looters.”

  “I’m not going to steal anything. I’ll pay for it,” Marty turned his back on Buck and sorted through some shirts, looking for a large. This was the third time Buck had pointed a gun at him and the impact had worn off. “I’ll leave the money by the register with the price tags of whatever I take.”

  “You’re stopping to go fucking shopping? What the fuck is the matter with you? I thought you were in a hurry to get home.”

  “I am, but my feet are covered in blisters, my shoes are shredded. I need new shoes if I’m gonna make it. And look at me. What do you think my wife is going to say when she sees me like this?”