Ryan was slightly unsure of his footing with this powerful movie producer intent on buying his script, and didn't push the matter, but John went on. «This is to say that if Susan Colgate, who's like the patron saint of missing persons, goes missing, even for one day, then Missing Persons ought to get right on the case, right?»
Ryan asked, «When you two met, she knew who you were? How much did you guys talk? How did you leave it? What was she wearing?»
«We went walking. Must have been three miles. It was damn hot out, too. She didn't break a sweat once. It was like in high school, like we were off to get milkshakes with Jughead and Veronica.» Some cashews appeared on the table. «Ryan, do you know that before I made my decision to put myself out of commission I'd been really sick?»
«No.»
«I was. I technically kicked the bucket over at Cedars-that's what the doctors said. And you know what I saw when I flat-lined?»
«What?»
«Susan.»
«What can I say to that?»
«You tell me.»
«John — come to the light!»
«Alright, so it was a
A waiter came by. Ryan's drink was empty. He ordered another. «A Singapore sling, please.» He didn't know what to say to John.
«A Singapore
«It's a jaunty ironic retro beverage.»
«You little twerp. I pioneered irony and retro back when you were shitting your Huggies.» John looked at the waiter: «A rusty nail, please.»
Ryan was fidgeting. John said, «Well, I suppose you probably want to discuss your script. We'll buy it. Don't get an aneurysm or anything.» Ryan looked relieved but nervous. John said, «You don't have an agent, Ryan, do you?»
Ryan's face was flushed. «Nope.»
«Good for you. You just saved yourself forty-five grand.»
Ryan's flush drained away. His face stopped.
«Oh, this is good,» said John. «I can see the little cartoon cogs and wheels in your head trying to do the arithmetic to figure out the offer. I'll put you out of your misery. Three hundred grand.»
«You're messing with me.»
«You have a shitty poker face, Ryan.»
Ryan's drink arrived, but he pushed it away. «I want to remember this clearly.»
«You've got a stronger constitution than I ever had.» He held his glass up. «A toast.» They clinked glasses, sipped and then John said, «Ivan doesn't trust something unless it's way overpriced. If I told him I'd gotten “Tungaska” for five grand, it would have ended right there. I pulled the number 300 out of the air. I could have made it more.»
Ryan sat, immobilized.
«Hey, c'mon, Ryan,» John said. «Sing — dance — do a little jig or something. Make me feel like an aging benevolent fart.»
«No. John. You don't understand. You've just changed my life as if you'd given me wings or blinded my eyes. I feel dizzy.»
«Believe me, this isn't the way it usually happens. Normally, Ivan and I would be trying to engineer some way of fucking you ragged on the deal. But I'm feeling mentorish. I'll hook you up with a lawyer. Sign the paper and you're set.»
A cocktail of money, shared secrets and ironic beverages made Ryan bold. «John — what was the deal with last year? I know about as much as anybody does who reads the tabloids. What happened? What was it you were wanting to do back then?»
John looked at Ryan kindly but sternly. «Not now. Not tonight. Tonight is about success.»
They soon split up, but some hours later, after zooming through Susan's tapes, John phoned to ask Ryan if he could take him up on his corny offer to indulge his feelings for Susan. It was past one in the morning, and Ryan was polishing «Tungaska» and didn't want an interruption, but John persevered. And then Ryan revealed he had to go out on an errand and would be busy.
«O
«John, I've got to go help my girlfriend with something.»
«Girlfriend?»
«What's that tone in your voice?»
«Me? Nothing. All I said was
«You think I'm gay.»
«Did I say that?»
«It was in your voice.»
«Well, you are, aren't you?»
«No.»
«I don't believe you.»
«God, let me make a phone call. Hang up, eat a Scooby Snack and I'll call you in five minutes.»
John hung up. Three minutes later the phone rang. «Vanessa says you can come help us.»
«Help with
«You'll see.» He gave John Vanessa's address in Santa Monica. They agreed to meet in one hour, but John was early.
Vanessa opened the screen door, calm and bookish in horn-rimmed glasses and a wool sweater set imported from some other part of the century. John thought Vanessa looked like one of the murdered Clutter daughters of Kansas. She asked him to sit on a side chair. «Would you like something to drink, maybe?»
«Uh — a Coke.»
«Sure.»
She went into the kitchen. John heard the fridge open and close, along with other friendly kitchen sounds. Vanessa looked smart in a way John knew she was helpless to conceal. She had the laser-scanning eyes of the highest-paid personal assistants, the ones who single-handedly made Neanderthal teensploitation film producers seem classy and hip by scripting the brief, urbane speeches they gave while donating comically large checks to well-researched and cutting-edge charities.
Vanessa was quite obviously some freak of nature marooned on the shores of the bell curve's right-most limits. «What do you do for a living, Vanessa?» John asked, stretching out his neck as if it would help lob his words around a bend in the wall.
«I work at the Rand Corporation.»
This didn't surprise John. «No shit. Doing what?»
«Think-tanking.»
«You sit around in beanbag chairs all day and think up military invasion strategies and ways to suppress the development of electric cars?»
She pretended not to have heard that and came in and handed him his Coke. He took a sip and paused. «Hey — this is really delicious!» The sweetness delighted him, and he chugged down half the glass. «Wow. I'd forgotten how good a simple Coke could be.»
«It's not the Coke, it's me. I added sugar to it. Two teaspoons.»
