But he didn’t: Two pages later, his hand was back, this time resting on her leg, kneading her thigh.
“Bill, don’t.” She moved his hand away, turned to face him, and found him leaning toward her, his face only a few inches from hers. “Please.”
“Lee, I’ve got to confess something, I’m crazy about you.”
“Come on, Bill. We’re both excited about what happened tonight and we’re both tired, and it’s got you confused. Don’t turn this into something romantic.”
“It’s too late. You’ve got me hooked.”
“What, in one day?”
“I’m not joking.”
“You’re my agent, Bill. Let’s leave it at that, okay?”
“I can’t,” he said. “You’re so goddamn gorgeous I can’t get you out of my head. I can’t tell you how badly I wanted to give you a real kiss last night.”
“Okay, we’re going to stop this right now.” His hands had started to wander again. She batted them down and tried to stand, but he pulled her back with an arm around her waist.
“What? I’m not allowed to leave? You’re going to keep me here by force?” She meant for it to sound like banter-self-possessed, annoyed, imperturbable-but she could hear the tears in her voice, the sound of frustration and fatigue and disappointment. He had relaxed his grip, but his arm was still around her, his fist bouncing impatiently against her thigh, and he was shaking his head. “I’m going to go now,” she said. “You understand? I’ll drive myself. You can pick up the car tomorrow. We’ll both get some sleep, and tomorrow we’ll forget this happened, okay?”
He didn’t move his arm. “I want you to stay with me tonight, Lee.”
“It’s not going to happen.”
“You want the part in Michael’s movie,” he said. “You deserve it. Why throw it away?”
“I don’t want it this way.”
“Now you’re being silly. You screwed Arthur, and what did he ever give you? Except my phone number, so maybe he did deserve it.” He pulled her toward him and shifted his weight, and suddenly she was looking up at the ceiling and he was on top of her. She pushed at his shoulders, but only succeeded in sinking further into the couch. She could smell his breath-he wasn’t drunk, he didn’t even have that excuse-and she could feel his erection pressing against her belly through their clothing. In this moment, her anger and frustration gave way to fear, the simple, physical fear that she wouldn’t be able to fight him off.
“Oh, Lee, Lee, we have so much to give each other.”
“What’s wrong with you? Get off me!” She groped around the back of the couch for something to grab onto, something she could use to lever herself back to a sitting position. A different thought sparked when her questing hand hit one of the speakers. She couldn’t see it and didn’t know what it was, but it fit in her hand and, though it was heavy, she was able to lift it off its stand. “Get off me this instant!” She swung the speaker as hard as she could, hoping to bring it down squarely on his back.
But, feeling the movement of her arm, he raised his head, pushed her shoulders down, and started turning to look. The speaker caught him, hard, in the side of the head. He rolled off her with the force of the blow, landing face down on the wall-to-wall carpet at the base of the couch. When she looked down, she thought she saw his head move, but it was just an optical illusion caused by the steady flow of blood from his temple.
III
Arthur put the phone down and turned off his desk lamp. He could still see by the light from other buildings coming through his window, but there was nothing much he wanted to look at. Not the headlines, certainly-he’d already thrown the papers away, crushed them down at the bottom of the garbage along with the cigarette butts and used tissues.
Sandy had been the first to notice the story, and she’d hit him with it when he’d come home two days ago. “Have you heard what happened to Bill Fitch?” And: “Did you ever hear of this actress, this Lisa Brennan?” No, he’d said. Never heard of her.
He’d shut the door to his home office on the second floor and gone to one of the industry sites on the Internet to learn more. The coverage appeared under “Breaking News” first, then later under “Today’s News,” then under “Updates,” and finally under “Obituaries.”
Lisa left him out of it when she told her story, or at least the papers left him out of it when they reported it. He didn’t have any illusions that this was because either Lisa or the writers wanted to protect him. His name wouldn’t sell any more papers, and as for Lisa, how much had he really had to do with what had happened? He’d made an introduction. It’s what people did, that’s how the business worked. He was just doing her a good turn.
At least that had been the idea. She’d have been better off cast in Goin’ West, stripped naked for a shower scene like Angela Meyer, nobody ever seeing her face. Oh, she had fame now, everyone knew who she was, and given the story she was telling, he supposed she probably wouldn’t go to jail. But there was no chance anyone would ever hire her again. When they made the movie-of-the-week of her story, they’d cast someone else to play her. Maybe Michelle Glassberg.
Arthur carried his cigarette to the window, dragged deeply on it and watched the pinpoint of red reflected in the glass. The note he’d left pinned under his tape dispenser fluttered when he opened the window. It’s not you, honey. I can’t stand this stinking business.
He’d finished the casting for Goin’ West. Corey Dunn was doing the picture, and on the phone just now Kreuger had been ecstatic to hear it. “You’re the best, Arthur,” he’d said. “What would I do without you?”
Arthur tossed the butt and watched it trail away into the night.
“Oh, you’d get by,” he’d said. “You’d get by.”
All Said and Done by GREGG HURWITZ
HE WOKE UP with sweat washing over his body in tight chilly shimmers and the paddles of the fan whirring above him like a copter. He jerked out of bed and ran both hands over his face, top to bottom, then down around the back of his neck. They slid on the moistness of his skin, and he felt something less than human. Reptilian.
Crossing the tiny square that passed for his bedroom, he pulled the metal folding chair away from the stack of empty fruit crates. He sank into the chair and faced the small Smith Corona typewriter that sat on a slight angle atop the highest box. BURSTIN’ ORANGE. FLORIDA’S BEST! the crate proclaimed.
He laid the pads of his fingers gently on top of the keys and slid them in the rounded grooves. It was “a laying on of hands,” as his father used to say when he spoke of New Testament tales when there still had been a New Testament or an Old. He felt the power contained in his eight little fingers perched on the starting blocks of eight little keys. A big door. It had always been. Trouble was you couldn’t control what flew out when you opened it. The moon slid into view in the edge of the window as the earth continued its tedious rotation, and the straw-colored light fell patterned across his bare mattress. A big fucking door. He opened it.
It was the summer of the year and every year and yet there were no seasons, just time awash with a blend of the four. It was sometime in the sixties but then time never held when you were really alive or really dead and for the sixteen months of my tour I was both.
He stopped. “I am Janson Tanker,” he said softly to the four walls that he could all but touch from his seat at the makeshift desk. He looked around the room, noticing the spill of the moonlight turned metallic as it passed through the small window splattered with rain and neon. He had New York on his windows, and the rain couldn’t wash them clean of it any more than he could wash the New York from his body with the small sink in the corner.