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 and 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.
