by Jim Gavin
“Mr. Lavoy?”
“Is this you?”
It sounded like a trick question. Adam said, “Yes.”
“The one from the other day.”
“It’s me. Adam.”
“What you have to understand is that all our modern assassins descend from Ravaillac. One of the first men to understand this was Philippe Sonck. Have you read Sonck?”
“No.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Nobody reads Sonck, and yet he’s probably the greatest spy novelist that Belgium ever produced. His oeuvre charts the history of continental espionage, from Cardinal Richelieu to Reinhard Gehlen. The Lost Tide is probably his best book. It’s all about the final months leading up to the death of Henry IV. There are some historical inaccuracies, and too often he indulges in the kind of baroque flourishes that are so typical of the Flemish”—Max laughed softly at his joke—“but it’s still a beautiful work of fiction and I’m proud to say that in many subtle ways it anticipates my own imaginings on the subject. Now, listen. You’ll like this. In 1928, he sent a letter to his good friend John Buchan. Or was it 1929 . . . ?”
There was a long pause. Adam could hear Max flipping pages. “Yes, I was right: 1928. He told Buchan . . . do you know Buchan?”
Adam felt like he had been given a chance to win some points. He was about to say that, yes, he had read The Thirty-Nine Steps, though in truth he had only seen the movie. In any case, he was definitely aware of the work of John Buchan. But before he could say anything Max continued: “This is one of my favorite quotes. Sonck said, ‘For the novelist, mood is the only historical truth. Hence the persistence of fog in all our books.” Max took a deep breath. “Some men just understand things. Do you know what I mean?”
“I’d like to read something by Sonck.”
“All his books are out of print,” said Max. “Every single one of them.”
There was another long pause. Finally, Adam said, “Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Hold on,” said Max. “Someone’s on the other line. I’ll get rid of them.”
Adam heard a sharp, piercing tone, and then Max’s voice. “Goddammit, Joanne. Not now.”
“Mr. Lavoy. I’m not sure you switched over. I think you pushed the wrong button.”
“There must be something wrong with the phone. Don’t go anywhere.”
The line went silent. Ten minutes passed, then twenty, but Adam kept the phone close to his ear. A full hour passed; it was four o’clock and the woman from publicity came into the office to get her copies. Adam apologized for not getting them done.
“I’m on hold with Max,” he told her, but she didn’t seem to believe him. Later, the line from Melanie’s office blinked on and he was afraid to pick it up. After a while she came into the copy room.
“There you are,” she said. “Can you run this tape over to post?”
“I’m on hold with Max.”
“Is everything okay?”
“I think so. But I have a question for you.”
“Sure.”
“Who’s your favorite Belgian spy novelist? Be honest.”
“Oh, God. I’m sorry.” She handed him the tape. “Just drop it off whenever he’s done.”
At five o’clock, Adam decided that Max had forgotten about him. He hung up, collected his things, and then delivered the tape. On his way to the parking garage he was thrilled to see one of the actors from Office Space, the old guy who gets hit by a drunk driver and becomes a millionaire paraplegic.
• • •
Adam fought his way up Fairfax and parked on Sunset. A few dozen paranoid comics were already lined up outside the club, trying to improve their chances. Most people, including Adam, suspected that the lottery was rigged by Les Thorpe, a famously mediocre local comic who had taken on a management role with the club, booking shows, handling the amateur hour, and performing other meager tasks that allowed him to stay around the action, if not in it. Adam regarded Thorpe with a certain pity. Despite his pleasant demeanor, Thorpe was suffering in a hell of his own making; he had cashed in his delusions and bought a sad little fiefdom. As Adam got in line, he saw Thorpe emerge from the parking lot, and he wondered if the guy had any idea how little he was respected by the people who befriended him. Adam was determined not to be one of these people; despite all evidence to the contrary, some part of himself—the most vital and destructive part of himself—believed that eventually his talent would be recognized as something pure and triumphant and somehow he would be granted dispensation from the degrading realities that made everyone around him seem so shameless and corrupt. Of course, he had a sinking feeling that everyone around him believed the exact same thing. No rugged, right-thinking American individual would ever admit to kissing ass. That’s something the other guy did. It was “networking,” nothing more, nothing less. Farther down the line he saw Trapper Keeper from El Goof and they pretended not to see each other. This was typical. All the sidewalk amateurs tried to maintain an air of aloof self-confidence, but beneath this Adam felt mortal fear, as if they were all racing each other for the last plane out of Saigon. Adam watched Thorpe nice-guy his way down the line, smiling, asking how everyone was doing, laughing with a few regulars who were as mediocre as Thorpe and who therefore seemed to win the lottery with stunning frequency, and then he started collecting his graft and taking down people’s names. Someone slapped Adam on the shoulder.
“Hey, man, it’s me, Chris!” said Chris Hobbs. “It’s you, right?”
“Right.”
“This is way better than El Goof! I just found out about it.”
Hobbs was too loud, too obvious; everyone turned to look at him and Adam felt suddenly exposed. He had the feeling that all the drivers on Sunset Boulevard were slowing down to laugh at him and all the horrible decisions he had made in his life. He could be out with his old friends, drinking beer in righteous anonymity, but instead he was huddled on the sidewalk with a bunch of miserable strangers. He tried to remember the last time he got a beer with a friend, but he couldn’t. “Don’t get your hopes up,” he said.
“Is that the guy we talk to if we want on the list?” asked Hobbs, who was wearing Elvis sunglasses and a stylish denim shirt embroidered with some kind of Aztec symbol.
“It’s supposed to be a lottery,” said Adam. “But if you’re willing to suck that guy’s cock, it’ll improve your odds.”
There was stifled laughter from a few nearby comics. One of them, through clenched teeth, said, “Dude, be quiet.”
“Have you ever gotten picked?” Hobbs asked.
“No,” said Adam. “I have too much dignity.”
They watched Thorpe stop to chat with Trapper Keeper, who forced herself to laugh at the first thing he said. “We’re fucked,” said Adam.
Thorpe finally got to Adam and said, “Good to see you, man. How’s everything going? You okay?”
“Adam Cullen,” he said, with a cold, vacant stare, and for a moment he felt proud of his ability to sabotage himself. But he instantly regretted it and tried to think of something nice to say to Thorpe. He couldn’t think of anything in time. Thorpe nodded and wrote down his name. Hobbs leaned forward and in one breath he introduced himself, complimented Thorpe on his shoes, and explained that he had just moved out here.
“Let’s do this!” said Hobbs brightly, as Thorpe took his money, and everyone in line, everyone driving down Sunset, everyone in Los Angeles, winced. Thorpe finished taking names and went back inside the club. A few minutes later, he appeared at the front door, called out six names, the usual suspects plus Trapper Keeper, who gave Adam a guilty shrug as she walked inside. Thorpe wished everyone good luck for next time. Those who were kissing ass ten minutes ago were now cursing his name. Adam walked toward his car, but Hobbs caught up with him and asked if he wanted to get some dinner.
“I’d like to pick your brain,” he said.
“Why?”
“It seems like you’ve been around,” he said. “You know wh
at you’re doing.”
“Are you nuts?”
“Please,” said Hobbs, and his voice faltered a little. “It’s hard meeting people out here.” It was almost dark now and he took off his sunglasses. “I’ll buy you dinner.”
They walked down to a Mexican restaurant. Adam ordered a margarita and a plate of carne asada. Hobbs said he wasn’t that hungry, but every time the waiter came around, he asked for more chips and salsa. Hobbs peppered Adam with questions about agents and managers. Instead of admitting his own ignorance and frustration in these matters, Adam gave a speech on the nobility of craft. “If you do things right and put in the work, everything else will take care of itself,” he said, with surprising conviction. He felt like he was channeling some future version of himself, the total pro who had attained mastery in all areas of life. Then it occurred to him, with creeping horror, that by summoning this wise man too soon, under false pretenses, he was precluding his existence. He was fucking with the space-time continuum. He imagined the two versions of himself—the young fraud and the old pro—standing on either side of a dark chasm. If there was some blessed third version of himself, the middle man who could bridge the gap, Adam saw no trace of him in the darkness. Rarely had he felt so defeated, and yet here was Hobbs, hanging on his every word. Adam thought he lived at the bottom. But he was wrong. There was no bottom. Adam ordered more margaritas and talked about the first time he heard one of his dad’s old George Carlin records. Hobbs admitted that he had never heard any of these, but Adam forgave him, saying that it was dangerous to become overly familiar with the canon. “That kind of knowledge can be a burden,” he said. “It can paralyze you.”
When the bill came, Hobbs peered despairingly into his wallet. “I only have twenty bucks. I didn’t think you’d drink so much.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m signed up at three different temp agencies,” he said. “I can’t get anything right now.”
Adam, in an expansive mood, paid for everything, explaining to Hobbs that he was actually making good money for the first time in his life. “Sixteen dollars an hour, plus benefits,” he said. “There’s a three-month probation period, but eventually I’ll have benefits.”
“I don’t have health insurance,” said Hobbs.
“What doesn’t kill us makes us hopelessly in debt for the rest of our lives.”
Nothing. Hobbs just nodded morosely. As they walked back down Sunset, Hobbs asked, “So did I blow it with Thorpe?”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Adam. “I know things don’t look good right now, but in the long run you’re way better off than that guy.”
“But it wouldn’t hurt to get him on my side.”
Adam saw a liquor store and popped in. He came back out with a carton of eggs. “Come on,” he said. “We’re going to do Thorpe a favor.”
“What?”
“We’ll egg the shit out of his car,” explained Adam. “It’ll help him reevaluate his life.”
Hobbs politely refused. He thanked Adam for dinner and promised to pay him back the next time he saw him at El Goof. They shook hands and said goodbye. Adam watched Hobbs walk quickly down Sunset; he started to jog and then, at the crosswalk, he sprinted away.
By the time Adam got to the parking lot, he had lost his nerve a little. This mission seemed pointless without Hobbs. He suddenly missed the devoted gaze of his pupil. He found Thorpe’s car and saw that someone had beaten him to it. The word “DOUCHEBAG” was scrawled in black Sharpie across the driver’s-side door of his Corolla. Adam felt bad for Thorpe, who was somewhere in the club, feeding off scraps. He decided not to throw the eggs; instead, he lined them up, one by one, along the windshield wipers. He figured this would be more effective than egg splatter. Who would take the time to do this? Who would show this kind of menacing restraint? It was surreal and unnerving, the work of a madman. After seeing this, Thorpe would have no choice but to change his life.
• • •
With no taping scheduled, the producers took Friday off, so Adam spent most of the day cruising around the lot. Everywhere he looked a stoic Teamster was gathering up electric cable. In one of the soundstages, he witnessed a man spray-painting the udder of a cow, to make it a brighter and more classical shade of pink. Like everyone else who had made it onto the lot, the cow seemed willing to put up with anything.
He found Doug outside, smoking in his gimp mask, and they spent a couple hours throwing a Frisbee around. For a while Adam had fun—he couldn’t believe he was getting paid to fuck around on a movie lot—but then he remembered that it was open mic night at El Goof. He didn’t want to go. He felt like a kid, on Sundays, waking up to the dread of evening mass.
“How much do you make a year?” Adam asked.
“Don’t talk about money,” said Doug. “It’s vulgar.”
“Are you in the Writers Guild?”
“That’s where I get all my pussy.”
“I want in the Writers Guild.”
“Then write something.”
“How often do jobs open up here?”
“Not very often,” said Doug. He put out his cigarette and looked Adam in the eye. “But if something does, I’ll put in a word for you. I know you’d be good at it.”
“Thanks, man.”
Adam spent the rest of the afternoon putting together his set. At some point earlier in the week it came to him that his studio apartment in Mar Vista had roughly the same dimensions and floor plan as the Unabomber shack. He wrote that down, trying to get something going, and by the time he left the studio he had convinced himself that it was a good bit. He was suddenly excited to get onstage.
When he got to El Goof, Frankie was watching the Dodgers game on mute. There was still some natural light coming through the porthole in the front door and most of the regulars were working on their second or third beer. Adam looked around but couldn’t see Chris Hobbs. Last week he had hated him, but now he was actually sort of worried about him. Members of Sleeper Cell were crowded around Ms. Pac-Man, cheering each other on. Frankie limped over to Adam, handed him a Coors Light, and picked up his clipboard.
“I’m letting Ramon go first,” he said, sounding apologetic.
Ramon, sitting a few stools away, said, “Is that cool?”
“That’s fine. I’ll go second.”
“I have you further down.”
Adam looked up from his beer. “How far down?”
“Last.”
“Why?”
“Because you keep running out when you’re done,” said Frankie.
“So?”
“It’s not fair to everybody,” said Ramon. “We sit through you.”
“You do the same shit every week,” said Adam. “I don’t need to hear it.”
“I’m doing new stuff tonight.”
“You mean old stuff you haven’t done in a while.”
Ramon grabbed his beer and walked to the end of the bar. Frankie turned up the sound on the game and then got down in a little crouch so he could address Adam in private.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Sorry. I’ll go last. I’ll be attentive and respectful toward my peers.”
“I know last week was a bummer, but you’re really close on a lot of that stuff.”
“Close?” Adam snorted.
“An act is like a string of pearls.”
“Jesus Christ, Frankie.”
“You’ve got some pearls, but the act is like—”
“The string that holds them together. I know.”
“Yeah, you’ve gotta string it the right way.” Frankie smiled and rebanded his ponytail. “That’s the hard part. Stringing it together. That’s what takes time.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“It’s a string a pearls, man!”
“I get it, but you don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about.”
From the end of the bar, Ramon said, “Don’t talk to Frankie like that.”
>
“Dude’s just blowing off steam,” said Frankie, shrugging.
Adam put money on the bar for his beer and stood up.
“That one’s on me,” said Frankie, pushing back the wadded singles, but Adam wouldn’t take them.
“Give my three minutes to Ramon,” said Adam, in a loud voice, so everyone could hear him. “Or give it to that sad little fuck.”
He pointed to the pedophile, who was sitting alone at a table next to the front door, slowly peeling the label from his bottle of beer. As Adam approached him, he kept his head down and his eyes on the bottle.
“Why don’t you just get it over with?” said Adam, standing over him. “Why don’t you go home, right now, and kill yourself?”
The pedophile kept his head down as the guys from Sleeper Cell burst out laughing.
“That’s what we should all do,” said Adam. “There’s nothing waiting for any us. Well, maybe him.” He pointed to the most talented terrorist, who, like all the great ones, didn’t seem at all surprised by the praise.
One of the other terrorists, with a sudden look of panic, asked, “What about me?”
“You’re fucked. Everybody in here is fucked. So let’s do it. Let’s kill ourselves. Come on! Let’s Hale-Bopp this shit right now!”
For a moment it was quiet.
“Hale-Bopp?” said Frankie.
“That cult down in San Diego,” said Adam. “They all wore black Nikes.”
“Just say Jonestown,” said Ramon. “Everyone knows Jonestown.”
Adam pushed open the door, but stopped when he heard Frankie yell his name. Adam turned around.
“Are you going to Del Taco?” he asked.
“No,” said Adam.
Frankie pulled a twenty out of the register. “Bring back some tacos for everybody.”
“Fuck that,” said Adam.
• • •
When he got back to his apartment, Adam called a friend he hadn’t seen in a while, a nice guy he knew from Long Beach State who now sold insurance. The friend sounded surprised to hear from Adam, but agreed to meet up. They got a drink in Santa Monica. “A few weeks ago I had to make a snack run to Smart & Final,” Adam told him. “Guess who was behind me in line? M. Emmet Walsh!”