by Edward Riche
“What sort of fee?”
“Well obviously something . . . not in line with Larry and Lucky. You weren’t even the one they were listening to, you were collateral damage.”
“Collateral casualties are the ones who get the compensation, Mike. That’s the American way. I have to get the same fee as those guys or no one will believe it. They make it known that it’s a real credit, not a courtesy credit, and I will endeavour to stay out of reach.”
The line was quiet for a moment. Mike was either considering the offer or had been dragged away by the feds.
“I think that can be done,” he finally answered.
“One worry, though.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve said, many times, that I would never adapt a comic book and never do serial killers.”
“Sure, but who heard you? And since you may soon be attached to the project, it’s ‘graphic novel,’ not ‘comic book.’ You would never be in the running for a top comic book adaptation. Though one major upside to this is that being considered a possible co-conspirator with that company really ups your stakes in this town. It puts you in another league altogether.”
“And all this time I’ve been trying to get ahead with writing.”
“Don’t call me about this, okay? I’m sure they’re tapping the office phones.”
“Who? The FBI or Larry . . . or Lucky?”
“Any or all of the above.”
“Can more than one person be tapping your phone at a time? Can you tap a tap? That would be a good twist in a picture, eh?”
“That’s far too complicated for today’s audience.”
“It is rather ‘meta.’”
“It’s ‘meh-ta,’ Elliot. If I don’t call you back then you can assume it’s done and you’re a producer on Centuri Protocol. If asked, you say it was an honour to work with . . . blah blah blah.”
“Have you talked to Jerry about this?”
“Jerry?”
“Jerry Borstein was on the call too. Are you gonna talk to him?”
“No! And don’t you either. Someone else must be dealing with Jerry.”
“Right. You know what is weird, Mike? I was at Silverman’s house the other day.”
“I know. What were you thinking, not fucking his wife?”
“Jesus, I thought —”
“ You could have done yourself a big favour there, buddy.”
“I so misread that.”
“How do you think it makes him look, some hack won’t fuck his wife? And now he’s got to keep fucking her on top of Janice Everston. You insulted one of the biggest players in this town.”
“Janice Everston?”
“Everybody knows this, my friend.”
“Imagine, though . . . fucking her on top of Janice Everston, I mean literally, her in the middle while you —”
“Stop, please.”
“This bullshit credit, Mike. It’s the first work you’ve got me in over a year.”
“Not true, didn’t I get you . . .” Realizing Elliot was correct, Mike refocused. “What I would really like to know is, what was said in that phone conference that’s got everybody’s pee so hot?”
“I have to be candid, Mike . . . I probably wasn’t paying close attention.”
“You don’t surprise me much, Elliot.”
“I say ‘yeah, that’s great’ and ‘good idea’ and doodle. I could check my doodles when I get back to Los Angeles.”
“Sure, Elliot, check your doodles.
Elliot’s circadian clock had not adjusted, a condition aggravated by all the television he was watching. When he should have been going to bed, it was dinnertime in Los Angeles, and with nothing over the course of the weekend to change his rhythms, Elliot had been keeping west-coast hours. He did not wake until ten a.m., seven in the morning in California. So much for his plan to arrive at the passport office first thing Monday.
There was not a spare chair in which to wait. The standing crowd spilled into the hallway outside. There was a narrow, elbow-riddled passage through the mob that provided access to a dispenser of numbered tickets indicating one’s place in line. Elliot drew 68.
Was there a mass exodus underway? Had there been some dreadful news that was motivating Canadians in great numbers to flee the county? They were serving number 29. He checked his ticket again: 68. He looked around. The faces here were mostly brown, so maybe people were going back to a home that wasn’t Canada.
After ten minutes, they served number 30. From the spot to which he’d retreated in the hallway, Elliot craned his neck to better scrutinize the system. There were six wickets, only two of which were manned. Something wasn’t right. Had not staunch conservative leadership of the nation put years of deficit financing and accumulating debt behind it? Since the banishment of the profligate tax-and-spenders, were not the newer governments in the black? This level of public service was positively third world. Trouble was said to be pending for Ontario; he remembered his Sikh chauffeur observing that the manufacturing sector was going down the toilet, but this was a federal service — shouldn’t it have been handsomely financed and adequately staffed, considering the cash on hand in Ottawa?
In the interior room a hefty West Indian lady collapsed. People went to her assistance. One less person in line, thought Elliot.
Thirty-four, and one of the clerks was closing her wicket. A few sighs was the most protest the crowd could muster. Canadians took it. In France there would have been a riot — to no avail, of course, but it least it would show evidence of a pulse.
Paramedics arrived before the number could change to 35. If their level of disinterest was any indication, all was fine with the large woman.
Standing next to him, leaning against the wall, was an attractive young woman — features and skin one found in the French Caribbean. Her hair was in a funky, unravelling afro. She wore a revealing T-shirt, loose silk pants, and flip-flops.
A full year without sex was a worrisome milestone. Was there any possibility, however remote, that the delightful young thing standing there might, under some, at this moment unforeseeable, circumstance, take him to bed? No, there was none. Absolutely none. She’d have to be mad to fuck a sunburned old bucket of issues like Elliot. He was so seriously unfuckable right now that he would selflessly counsel any deluded comers,“Spare yourself the ignominy!”
Two new clerks arrived at wickets. Evidently their station was as complex as the cockpit of the space shuttle, so long did they take arranging their pens and staplers and stamps.
His bitterness about his breakup with Connie was far enough in recess now that he could look back with some fondness on his time with her. They had split over what she perceived as Elliot’s inability to see things for what they really were. Despite its being none of her business (though Elliot continually burdened Connie with his complaints), she’d questioned the viability of the vineyard. She took it upon herself to download an article from the Net about creeping sprawl in San Luis Obispo County and asked if he’d considered selling his land to a developer. The nerve. Eventually she brought that stuff to bed and that was that.
Connie missed a critical factor in her analysis of his problem. Sure, Elliot wasn’t being truthful with himself; sure, he wasn’t facing the facts. But he was also self-aware. His was self-conscious self-deception. It was how one coped.
Now the line was moving more efficiently: they were at number 60, the number of the beautiful girl next to him. He watched her hard and high ass go and fancied what it might be like governed, in furious up-and-down pumping, by his grip. He was as stirred as he’d been by Robin Silverman. If it really was a year since he’d had sex, then maybe his old reptile brain was taking charge, shouldering reason and doubt aside to take the wheel, or, more properly, the stick. Fuck something, fast! it was saying. He should not be listening.
Someone was screaming at one of the clerks in his native Eastern European tongue. The audience of his tirade was waving in a security guard. The uniform was already
en route, obviously having been summoned by some hidden button. Back to the shtetl, sucker. One less person in line.
What if things went badly with the Department of Agriculture back at the vineyard? If there was some criminal proceeding, there could be problems with Elliot’s treasured green card. Poor old Lloyd Purcell’s crime hadn’t been egregious, nothing Fatty Arbuckle, an indiscretion, really, and the heartless monsters at Naturalization had snatched his documents. Jesus, Elliot realized, he hadn’t heard anything of Lloyd, nothing at all, since his old colleague had been forced back to Canada. Poor sod might just as well be dead.
Sixty-five. He’d be up any moment. And might not an American criminal record, especially one involving the prohibited export/import of French root stock, cause him future difficulties crossing the pond? Without the occasional trip to France or Italy, to lands dedicated to living, he would wither and die.
His number, 68, flashed on the display. He stepped up to the wicket at exactly the same moment as a stern-looking Vietnamese chap.
“I 68,” said the Vietnamese.
“Sorry, Ho.” Elliot showed his tab.
“You go back, Blue Boy, you full of shit, you blue 68.”
“What?”
The clerk piped up. “We are doing red numbers now, sir.”
“What?”
“You have a blue 68. We have to get through the reds first and then the greens.”
“But I . . .” Elliot checked the paper in his hands: indeed, the 68 was in blue ink.
“We might get to you by this afternoon; otherwise, we’ll be taking today’s blues tomorrow.”
“You have to be early bird,” said the Vietnamese man, holding up his tab close to Elliot’s face, as Elliot had to him. The ink was red.
The concierge at the Four Seasons had recommended a place on Wellington — Bymark. Elliot found it alongside and partially under a lawn between commercial towers. Iron sculptures of lazing bulls, perhaps eight of them, were placed throughout the parkette. They were no doubt totems to beckon or celebrate positive movement in the financial markets. After civilization collapsed (soon), Elliot reckoned the alien anthropologists who found the statuary would reason that the doomed earth people venerated the bovine creatures from within the steel-and-concrete towers surrounding them.
The restaurant turned out to be a smart joint. The menu was simple but wisely chosen. Without a reservation, Elliot was seated at the bar. There was an adequate selection of wines by the glass, though Elliot could easily drink a bottle himself. He was not particularly hungry so ordered only a roasted wild mushroom salad, having with it, instead of the suggested Viognier, a glass of Rosso di Montalcino. Mushrooms were good friends to wine.
Elliot resolved to have lunch, find a bookstore, return to the hotel, and start the passport process anew the next morning.
He watched two women in business attire, jackets and rather short skirts, negotiate with the maitre d’ and then be escorted to low chairs at his back. They were waiting for a table but seemed more interested in the martinis with which they were quickly fitted than in grub. You didn’t see as much of the heavy cocktails at lunch these days. Elliot did not intend to eavesdrop but, with nothing to read, he made no effort not to.
“What’s replacing Jeopardy and Wheel?”
“Not game shows.”
“No?”
“They piloted one with George hosting, but the prizes were so lame that it wasn’t going to work.”
“How lame?”
“Year’s supply of Vachon cakes and a family pass to Canada’s Wonderland.”
“How did George take it?”
“Badly.”
“Tears?”
“Wailing. Weeping. Keening.”
“He went into this with his eyes open. It’s the Darwinism of showtainment. Besides, he’s starting to look his age.”
“Yeeeeew.”
They sounded to be lower-tier television executives. It explained the early boozing. Elliot was intrigued.
“What are they going to schedule?”
“They want something ‘Oprah-esque’ — their word.”
“Self-help nostrums, latest diet, getting over your mother?”
“You go, girl.”
“Keeps down the revolution, anyway.”
“How do you mean?”
“Makes the need for change personal and not political.”
“You can’t have tax players subsidizing a revolution.”
“You said ‘tax players.’”
“Did I? That’s good.”
“What sort of Vachon cakes?”
“Jos. Louis, Mae West . . . you want some?
“If they aren’t picking up the show. Wouldn’t want to see them wasted. I’ll bring them up to Belmont House. Mom and the other girls at the home love their sweets.”
From whence had come showbiz folks’ elevated sense of importance, Elliot wondered. Giving notes on a moronic sitcom was more important than family; the parking of trucks for a C movie was more important than all other commerce. And how willingly people accepted it. “I’m afraid you can’t go home tonight, ma’am, your street is a closed set. The production’s Child Containment Unit have your son and daughter under sedation. You will receive a DVD in the mail.” What were the gals saying now?
“Have you heard anything about the VP job?”
“They’re panicking, totally . . . It’s rudderless and — Oh, I did hear they’ve hired an executive headhunter out of New York, Barnaby Vesco?”
“What is it with these people? They’re obsessed with the U.S.”
“Why did I ever leave CTV?”
“Will Vic the Dick be in on the interviews?”
“Rainblatt? He can barely stand up. And it comes with nausea, his condition. You don’t want the president of the CBC blowing chunks on potential candidates.”
“What is it he’s got, exactly?”
“It’s called labyrinthitis. It’s a virus, apparently.”
“Poor bastard. How long do the symptoms last?”
“That’s the worst part, could be a week, could be a year . . . longer.”
“Is it contagious? I mean, if it’s a virus?”
“No idea. Gawd, why did I ever leave CTV?”
“Why don’t you get out of television altogether?”
“And do what?”
Elliot finished his salad and his wine. He placed his credit card on the bar and stood, as if stretching his back, to better get a look at the two women to whom he was listening. They, too, were now standing, their table ready. They were in their forties, Elliot supposed. Too thin, too old for their outfits, with too much makeup needed to mask their fatigue.
Elliot, for the first time in a while, had a winning pitch for Mike.
After a single ring Elliot got Mike’s EA, Blair.
“I don’t care who he’s in a meeting with. I need to speak with him, pronto.”
“I have strict instructions. Strict.”
“What has that got to do with me? Put Mike on the phone or —”
“Oh, HUSH!” said Blair. Elliot was put on hold.
Blair was back on the line with surprising haste.
“I don’t know what you’ve done to upset Mike so. He was very flustered when I told him you were calling. He said he would call you back after he goes to pick up some groceries on Santa Monica Boulevard. I have no idea what he’s talking abou — Oh my! Oh my!” Blair was speaking with tremendous excitement. “There he goes. There goes Mr. Vargas. He just left!”
“Thank you, Blair.”
It was not long before the phone in the room rang.
“I told you about the phones in the office.” Mike was breathless. “It’s not safe.”
“How else am I going to contact you? Leave a newspaper at a dead drop?”
“What?”
“Never mind,” said Elliot. “There’s been a new development.”
“First,” said Mike, “let me tell you my news.”
“Good?
”
“Fantastic. The lawyers say that without you the federal attorney doesn’t have a case, and if you’re a Canadian citizen not resident here, there is nothing they can do to compel you to testify.”
“Why is that good news for me?”
“For you?”
“If I’m going to stay in Toronto I’ll need a gig.”
“I’ll talk to Lucky about getting you an MOW or some D2V thing. They’re always shooting those up there. I’m sure they can fire a Canadian writer. Who would notice?”
“No. I’m talking about something substantial. Something with a golden parachute. That’s why I called.”
“You’ve lost me. You’ve got to speak up,” said Mike. “I have to hold this phone away from my face, there’s something gross on the handset.”
“The CBC is looking for a new vice president of English programming.”
On the line Elliot could hear the drone of traffic on Santa Monica. “What’s the CBC?” asked Mike, after a moment.
“The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. Like PBS, only with commercials.”
“And do they have a Spanish service or something?”
“No, why?”
“Well, you said English programming.”
“They have a French service.”
Mike laughed.
“No, really,” said Elliot.
“Oh, so . . . they really speak French up there? I always thought that was . . . like a joke or something, you know like Black Jack Shelack.”
“Jacques. Black Jacques ShelLAC. Listen to me. I want the job.”
“English programming at the CBC? How the hell am I supposed to help you with that?”
“Not you — talk to Lucky Silverman, tell him that would be the best way to keep me here for a year or so.”
“What can Lucky do?”
“All I need is for the headhunting agency to come looking for me. It’s Barnaby Vesco out of New York.”
“I’ve heard of them.”
“Exactly. Someone like Lucky will have a connection.”
“That’s it? That’s all you want? To stay in Toronto, a job at . . . ?”
“The CBC.”
“. . . yeah, okay. The CBC. In Toronto. I don’t know what Lucky can do, but it doesn’t seem like a lot to ask.”
