pecked out the action sequences and the lines of dialogue, and in three months it was done-and he thought it was more than good, that it was maybe even great.
As he conceived it, the film would be first and foremost a vehicle for major stars who, he imagined, would approach him on the set-the Constellation?-and tell him how much they loved the lines he had put on their lips. The story had it all: intrigue, drama, sex appeal, all set in the high-stakes world of casino gambling and cheating. ATI would sell it for millions and he would trade his life in an underground lab in the middle of the desert, with his life savings of about 130 grand, for the glittering world of a screenwriter, living in a grand house high in the Hollywood Hills, taking calls from directors, attending premiers, klieg lights sweeping the horizon. He wasn’t fifty yet. He still had a future.
But first Bernie Schwartz had to say yes. Even the simple act of calling the man was complicated. Mark left for work too early and returned too late to connect with Bernie’s office from home. Outside calls from work were impossible. When you worked deep underground in a bunker, there was no concept of popping outside to make a call on a cell phone, even if mobiles were permitted, which they weren’t. That meant he literally had to take sick days to remain in Las Vegas to phone L.A. Too many more absences and his superiors were bound to ask questions and force him to get evaluated by the medical department.
He dialed the phone and waited till he heard the chant, “ATI, how may I direct your call?”
“Bernard Schwartz, please.”
“One moment, please.”
For the past couple of weeks the music on hold had been a Bach harpsichord work, soothing in a mathematical sort of way. Mark saw the musical patterns in his head and it helped relieve the stress of calling this loathsome but essential little man.
The music stopped. “This is Roz.”
“Hi, Roz, this is Peter Benedict. Is Mr. Schwartz there?”
A pregnant pause, then, frostily, “Hello, Peter, no, he’s away from his desk.”
Frustration. “I’ve called seven times, Roz!”
“I’m aware of that, Peter. I’ve talked to you seven times.”
“Do you know if he’s read my script yet?”
“I’m not sure if he’s gotten to it.”
“You said you were going to check when I called last week.”
“As of last week he hadn’t.”
“Do you think he’ll read it this week?” he pleaded.
There was silence on the line. He thought he could hear the rapid-fire clicking of a ballpoint pen. Finally, “Look, Peter, you’re a nice guy. I’m not supposed to say this, but we got the coverage of Counters from our readers and it wasn’t good. It’s a waste of your time to keep calling here. Mr. Schwartz is a very busy man and he’s not going to represent this project.”
Mark gulped and squeezed the phone so hard it hurt his hand.
“Peter?”
His throat was tight and it burned. “Thank you, Roz. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
He hung up and let his knees buckle him onto the nearest chair.
It started as a tear from his left eye, then his right. As he wiped away the moisture, the pressure rose from below his diaphragm reached his chest and escaped his larynx as a single low rumbling sob. Then another and another until his shoulders were heaving and he was crying uncontrollably. Like a child, like a baby. No. No.
The desert sky turned coronation purple as Mark numbly walked into the Constellation, his right hand curled around a wad of cash in his pants. He plowed through the crowded lobby with a tunnel vision that blurred the periphery and set a clear path toward the Grand Astro Casino. As he crossed the threshold he hardly noticed the din of voices, the clanging and goofy musical tones of the slots and video poker machines. Instead, he heard blood throbbing in his ears, like a pulsing, heavy surf. Uncharacteristically, he paid no attention to the points of light on the planetary dome, with Taurus, Perseus, and Auriga directly overhead. He bore left through the valley of the slots and passed beneath Orion and Gemini on his way to Ursus Major, the Great Bear, where the high-stakes blackjack room beckoned.
There were a half-dozen $5,000 tables to choose from, and he picked the one where Marty, one of his favorite dealers, was working. Marty was a New Jersey transplant, his wavy brown hair pulled back into a neat little ponytail. Marty’s eyes lit up when he saw him approaching. “Hey, Mr. Benedict! I got a nice chair for you!” Mark sat down and mumbled hello to the four other players, all men, all deadly serious. He pulled out his wad and traded it for $8,500 in chips. The stake was the largest Marty had ever seen from him. “Okay!” he said loudly, catching the ear of the pit boss nearby. “I hope you do real well tonight, Mr. B.”
Mark stacked his chips and stared at them stupidly, his mind gummy. He bet the $500 minimum and played automatically for a few minutes, breaking even until Marty reshuffled and started a fresh deal. Then his head cleared as if he’d taken a whiff of smelling salts and he began to hear numbers pinging in his head like an audible beacon in the fog.
Plus three, minus two, plus one, plus four.
The count was calling out to him, and hypnotically he allowed himself for once to link the count to his bets. For the next hour he ebbed and flowed, retreating to the minimum bet on low counts and jacking the wager on high counts. His stack grew to $13,000, then $31,000, and he played on, hardly noticing that Marty was gone, replaced by some sourface named Sandra with nicotine-stained fingertips. A half hour later he hardly noticed that Sandra was shuffling more frequently. He hardly noticed that his stack had grown to over $60,000. He hardly noticed that his beer hadn’t been refreshed. And he hardly noticed when the pit boss sidled up behind him with two security guards.
“Mr. Benedict,” the pit boss said. “I wonder if you could come with us?”
Gil Flores moved back and forth with quick little steps like one of the Siberian tigers in Siegfried and Roy’s old act. The meek humiliated man sitting before him could almost feel plumes of hot breath on his bald pate.
“What the fuck were you thinking of,” Flores demanded. “Did you think we wouldn’t spot this, Peter?”
Mark didn’t answer.
“You’re not talking to me? This isn’t a fucking court of law. It’s not like you’re innocent till proven guilty. You are guilty, my friend. You basically fucked me up the ass and I do not like my sex that way.”
A blank, mute stare.
“I think you should answer me. I really think you’d fucking better answer me.”
Mark swallowed hard, a dry, difficult swallow that produced a comical gulp. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did it.”
Gil ran his hand through his thick black hair, mussing himself in exasperation. “How can an intelligent man say ‘I don’t know why I did something’? To me, that doesn’t make any sense. Of course you know why you did it. Why did you do this?”
Mark looked at him finally and started to cry.
“Don’t be crying at me,” Flores warned. “I’m not your fucking mother.” That said, he tossed a box of tissues into Mark’s lap.
He dabbed his eyes. “I had a disappointment today. I was angry. I felt angry and this is how I reacted. It was stupid and I apologize. You can keep the money.”
Flores had almost been mollified until the last concept, which threw him into a tizzy. “I can keep the money? You mean the money you stole from me? This is your solution? To let me keep that which already fucking belongs to me!”
Mark winced at the shouting and needed another tissue.
The desk phone rang.
Flores picked it up and listened for a while. “You sure about this?” After a pause, he continued, “Of course. Absolutely.”
He put the phone down and moved in front of Mark, making him crane his neck. “Okay, Peter, this is how we’re going to handle this.”
“Please don’t report this to the police,” Mark begged. “I’ll lose my job.”
“Would you please shut your mouth and listen to me. This is not a conversation. I’m going to talk and you’re going to listen. That’s the asymmetry that your actions have brought upon you.”
