Everything but the Squeal

“Take the towels from the bathroom,” she said with the unemotional assurance of a hired expert. “You can sleep on top of them. They're pretty clean.”

Considering the loss of time involved in going home, I got up and went into the bathroom for the pillows. “Don't be in there too long,” she called. “I may need it again.”

“What do you do, Jessica,” I said, “draw moisture from the atmosphere? Have you got gills or something?”

“You just don't know anything about girls,” she bellowed. I grabbed all the available linen, left the bathroom, and went into the other room, where I laid the towels on the floor, end to end. They had holes in them. I dropped the washcloths over the holes in the sad little arrangement I'd made, and put the pillow at the top. “If you did,” she continued implacably, “you wouldn't have let that snotty one hang up on you.”

“And what should I have done?” I asked, just for form's sake, getting up to turn off the lights.

There were contented little burrowing sounds from the bed. “I can't tell you,” she said airily. “You either know or you don't.”

Reflecting that I obviously didn't, I tried to get comfortable on the linoleum. My hip bones seemed determined to inflict internal injuries at the slightest provocation. If I did know anything about women, I thought, Eleanor and I might still be together. In what already promised to become an eternal quest for a comfortable position, I turned around so that I faced the window. The Sleep-Eze's extravagantly large neon sign blinked in my eyes. I was being bombarded by fuchsia photons and serenaded by sound waves from motorbikes. It was like trying to sleep in a microwave oven. Nevertheless, I dropped off into a Technicolor doze.

I had barely begun a bright tropical dream, based loosely on the upholstery in the Sorrells’ hotel suite, when two very loud shots broke the night into splinters, and I found myself sitting bolt upright, grabbing for a gun that I didn't have. There was a rustle from the bed.

“It's the dealers,” Jessica said. “Remember?”

“Swell,” I said. “The walls in this place are made out of Saltines.”

“Oh,” she said dismissively, “don't be an old lady.”

I lay down again and tried to get comfortable. A moment later I heard the bed rustle again.

“Simeon?” Jessica said, sitting up. “You know what? This is fun.”

The next morning, after Jessica called Annie to assure her that she was alive and well, and I had brushed my teeth with my index finger and scratched at the whiskers sprouting in the folds of my neck, we drove Alice across town to UCLA. I introduced Jessica to the dragon who guarded the towels in the women's gym so she could take a sauna and a shower, and I slogged to the men's gym to tend to my own needs.

An hour later I was in the Powell Library, looking at the only book I could think of that might lead me to the name of Aimee's agent. Jessica, her hair still wet from her shower, was sublimating her impatience by breathing over my shoulder. “He's cute,” she said, indicating a malnourished juvenile with a tennis racket over his shoulder. The book was the Actors'Directory, published by the same folks who impose the Academy Awards upon you each year.

“Don't you know any word but ‘cute’?” I asked offensively. “He's cute, Donnie's cute, even the Mountain's cute. Try something different. ‘Lissome,’ maybe, or ‘earthy.’ If you use the same word to mean everything, it doesn't mean anything at all.”

“He's cute,” she said again. “You're earthy. I'm lissome,” she added as an afterthought.

“Kale,” I said.

“What?”

“Write it down. Homer Kale Agency, 9255 Sunset. He represents this little creep,” I said, pointing at her cutie. I'd deputized her to take notes as a way to keep her fidgeting from distracting the scholars.

“Kale is a vegetable?”

“It's like okra. Or maybe not.”

“Yuk,” she said deep in her throat. “Okra is nauseating.”

“Well, Mr. Kale may be too. Just write it down. And try not to stick your tongue out when you write.”

“I don't stick my tongue out,” she said, sticking her tongue out. She wrote his name and address on her pad. It was only the third entry on the page after half an hour of scanning the “Juveniles” section for agents whose names sounded like vegetables. We already had a Leaf and a Green.

“I think Green is stretching it,” she said, referring to the second name on the pad.

“Jessica, there's no delicate way to say this, but I don't really care what you think.” I was flipping through the pages. I'd finally gotten to the section on girls.

“God, you wake up grumpy.”

“And so would you, if you'd slept on the floor.”

“The bed was no bargain. I think there was a pea under the mattress.”

“At least it didn't have legs,” I said. “I was the only one on the towels who didn't have an exoskeleton.”

“Oh,” she said, her impatience flowering, “speak English.”

“Shhh,” someone said near us. Jessica favored him with the glare that had wilted Tammy in the Oki-Burger. I turned to a new page.

“I don't believe this,” I said.

“Shhh,” the scholar said again.

“You must have no powers of concentration at all,” Jessica said loudly. The scholar quailed visibly and retreated to his book. “You don't believe what?” she said to me.

“This,” I said. ”Marjorie Brussels.”

“Brussels is a place,” Jessica said.

“Her agency,” I said. “It extends the threshold of the gag reflex. It's called Brussels' Sprouts.”

“Skunks and cabbages,” Jessica said, writing. “That's worse than okra.”

13

Ten Percent for Starters

Mr. Leaf was wispy and tremulous and saturated with failure, Mrs. Green was large and black, and Mr. Kale was slimier than okra, and a lot greener. Mr. Leaf and Mrs. Green had been all too obviously on the up-and-up, mostly because they both insisted on seeing my bona fides. I didn't have any bona fides, which was part of the point. Mr. Leaf had thrown up his hands and Mrs. Green had ejected us in a rather forceful fashion. We'd moved on to Mr. Kale. The day, as they say, was still young, and three is popularly supposed to be the charm.

“My, my,” Mr. Kale kept saying, glancing furtively at Jessica. “My, my. What a lovely child.” Three notwithstanding, Mr. Kale was no charm. He was small and olive and balding and threadbare, and one of his nostrils was twice as large as the other. The small one was pretty big. He wore loafers without socks to capitalize on his resemblance, from the ankles down, to Don Johnson.

“What's your standard arrangement?” I said. He was awful enough to qualify for serious consideration.

“Your regular agent gets ten percent,” he said, making a visible effort to wrench his eyes from Jessica to me. If it had made a noise it would have sounded like Velcro ripping. “But I'm not your regular agent. What we have here is a total package. Agent, manager, all in one. Image, training, preparation, representation, what-have-you. ‘No representation without preparation,’ that's our motto. Complete career guidance for the little thespian.”

“I beg your pardon,” Jessica said, straightening up as though she'd slipped her toe into a socket.

“Thespian,” I said correctively, “thespian.”

“She'll need head shots,” Mr. Kale said, gazing longingly at her.

“Sounds like a fatal wound,” Jessica said, her nose still out of joint.

“Can you recommend a photographer?”

“Best in the business,” Mr. Kale said promptly. “Nothing but the best, that's our motto.” The motto apparently didn't extend to his office, which was smaller than Blister's sinuses.