“I won’t,” I say.
Another shot. Another police car arrives. Then an ambulance. My stepmother for about ten months, who I ended up sleeping with twice, gets out of a van and is lit, positioned in front of a camera. I yawn, shivering.
“Did the shots wake you up?” the doorman asks.
“Yeah.” I nod.
“You’re the guy who lives on the eleventh floor, right? The guy who directs videos, Jason or something, visits you a lot?”
“Martin?” I say.
“Yeah, hi. I’m Jack,” the doorman says.
“I’m Graham.” We shake hands.
“I’ve talked to Martin a couple of times,” Jack says.
“About … what?”
“Just that he knows someone in a band I was almost in.” Jack takes out a pack of clove cigarettes, offers me one. Three more shots, then a helicopter starts circling. “What do you do?” he asks.
“Go to school.”
Jack lights my cigarette. “Yeah? Where do you go to school?”
“I go to school at…” I stop. “Um, I go to school at U … at, um, USC.”
“Yeah? What are you? Freshman?”
“I’ll be a sophomore in the fall,” I tell him. “I think.”
“Yeah? Cool.” Jack thinks about this for a minute. “Do you know Tim Price? Blond guy? Really good-looking but, like, the worst person in the world? I think he’s in a fraternity?”
“I don’t think so,” I tell him. There’s a horrible scream from across Wilshire, then smoke.
“How about Dirk Erickson?” he asks.
Pretending to think about it for a minute, I answer, “No, I don’t think so.” Pause. “But I know a guy named Wave.” Pause. “He’s very fit and his family basically owns Lake Tahoe.”
Another police car arrives.
“Do you go to school?” I ask, after a while.
“No, I’m an actor, really.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “What have you been in?”
“A commercial for gum. Boyfriend in a Clearasil spot.” Jack shrugs. “Unless you’re willing to do some pretty awful things it’s hard getting a job in this town—and I’m willing.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I really want to get into video,” Jack says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Video, dude.”
“Yeah, that’s why Mark’s a really good contact.” There’s a huge crashing sound, then more smoke, then another ambulance.
“You mean Martin,” I say. “It would probably help out a lot, dude, if you get the names straight.”
“Yeah, Martin,” he says. “He’s a good contact.”
“Yeah, he’s a good contact,” I say slowly. I finish the cigarette and stand by the door, waiting for the sound of more gunfire. When it looks like nothing much is going to happen, Jack offers me a joint and I shake my head and say that I’ve got to drink some juice then get some more sleep. “There are two calico cats and a guinea pig I have never seen before upstairs in my bed.” Pause. “Plus I need to drink some more juice.”
“Yeah, sure, dude, I understand,” the doorman says, sparking up. “Juice, man. It’s good.”
The pot smells sweet and I kind of want to stay. Another shot, more screams. I head toward the elevator.
“Hey. I think maybe something’s gonna happen,” the doorman says as I step into the elevator.
“What?” I ask, holding the doors open.
“Maybe something will happen,” the doorman says.
“Yeah?” I say, unsure of what to do. I stare at the doorman, standing in the lobby, smoking a joint, then at the Slurpee, and we both wait.
I get a conference call from my mother, my father’s lawyer and someone from the studio he works at, at eleven the next morning. I listen, then tell them I’ll fly to Las Vegas today, and I hang up to make flight reservations. Martin wakes up, looks over at me, yawning. I wonder where Christie is.
“Oh man,” Martin groans, stretching. “What time is it? What’s going on?”
“It’s eleven. My father died.”
A long pause.
“You … had a dad?” Martin asks.
“Yeah.”
“What happened?” Martin sits up, then lies back down, confused. “How, man?”
“Plane crash,” I say.
I take the pipe off the nightstand, look for a lighter.
