They were late to the party. At the last second, Maureen got a call from a panicked client back in California who had just arrived home to find an IRS audit statement in his mailbox, and it took her ten minutes to calm him down and reassure him that there was nothing to fear, that everything for the past five years was in order, and that this was merely a random audit, not a red-flag situation. "Don't worry," she told him, "I'll take care of it."
She spent the next ten minutes quickly accessing computer records and looking through her file cabinets to make sure that what she'd told him was true.
So they were a half hour late getting to the Dysons’.
Liz answered the door. She gave each of them a big hug. "We were wondering what happened to you two!"
"Just some last-minute business," Maureen said.
Liz winked at her. "I understand."
"What does that mean?" Barry whispered as they walked into the living room. "Does she think we were fighting or fucking?"
Maureen hit his shoulder, gave him a stern look, then turned on her smile as she headed over to the punch bowl.
Barry felt a strong masculine hand slap his back. He turned to see Frank Hodges holding a Heineken and grinning hugely. "How goes it, bud? Haven't seen much of you since you took over the teapot museum."
"There aren't any teapots anymore. It's now home to perverted sex and violence."
Frank laughed heartily, slapped his back again. "Glad to hear it.
That's the way things oughta be." He motioned across the room, where quite a few people seemed to be mingling by the windows. "Do you know Kenny Tolkin ?"
The name didn't ring a bell. Barry shook his head. "I don't think so."
"Oh, you gotta meet Kenny." Frank led him through the crowd and around the couch. "He's the only person here with a job cooler than yours.
Kenny is a career consultant to rock stars. Right, Kenny?"
The man standing before diem elegantly holding a glass of red wine was tall, gray-haired, and distinguished looking --save for the gaudy blue patch over his left eye. He smiled. ""Artistic consultant' is what I'm calling myself now."
"Tell Barry here what you do."
Kenny laughed. "Frank ..."
"Come on."
"I make pop stars into artists."
Frank nudged Barry with his elbow. "Listen to this."
Kenny shook his head and waved his hand, begging off. "No."
"Come on."
"I'd like to hear it," Barry admitted.
"Oh, all right." He smiled, paused, took a sip of his wine. "There comes a time in the career of most singers and musicians, if they're successful enough, when they want to be taken more seriously. When they have enough fame and fortune and start to crave critical respect.
That's where I come in. For an outrageously inappropriate fee, I
choreograph a media campaign, stage interviews, and go over lyrics in order to make rock critics think my clients are senous artists. Music journalists are probably the most gullible people on the planet, and they're desperately willing to buy into the fantasy. I remember one time Kurt Cobain showed up for an interview wasted and wearing a dress, and the interviewer wrote a glowing piece on how Cobain was 'challenging gender stereotypes."" Kenny laughed. "So it's not as hard as you might think to con these people into believing that a twenty-two-year-old high school dropout is now making profound observations about the human condition."
"So how do you do it?" Barry asked.
Kenny smiled. "Trade secret. But I will clue you in on two important words: spiritual journey. It's my most tried and-true method. I take some of that godawful drivel these kids are writing, slip in a few references to fate or a higher power, tell them to stay out of the limelight for six months and to inform everyone that they're 'recharging' their spiritual batteries. Voila! Instant artist. They return from their hiatus with a new respect from critics who now laud their artistic growth and ambition."
It was an interesting occupation, Barry had to admit, and one that he had not even known existed until now. One of those new entrepreneurial jobs that the high-techies were always talking about.
Still, it was Kenny's eye that had really piqued Barry's curiosity.
Horror writer-it is rearing its head once again.
He casually glanced at the blue patch. How many people lost eyes these days? And how many of them wore patches? It seemed anachronistic, slightly exotic, like something out of another era. But he knew it would be impolite to ask about, and he was resigned to the fact that neither Frank nor Kenny was likely to bring up the subject.
Hell, maybe the man's eye was fine. Maybe pirate chic was big in the rock world these days and Kenny was just riding the cresting wave of the trend.
Once again, he felt Frank's hand slap his back. "Barry here's a writer. Like Stephen King."
Kenny looked intrigued. "Is that so?"
"I'm a horror writer," Barry admitted. "Published, I assume?"
He smiled. "I wouldn't call myself a writer if I wasn't. In fact, I
wouldn't be calling myself a writer unless I was making a living at it."
"You're a rare breed. I know writers who've never even written anything."
Barry chuckled. "So do I."
"Have any of your novels been optioned for film?"
"Not yet, no."
"I have some contacts in the film industry," Kenny said. "I'll ask around for you. Put in a good word. If I'm not imposing or overstepping my bounds."
"Wouldn't you like to read one first to make sure I'm not a complete hack?"
"Hacks sell their stuff to Hollywood all the time. Hackdom's no drawback in the film industry. Not that I think you are one," he added quickly.
Barry smiled. "No offense taken."
"Besides, if Frank and Ray vouch for you, that's good enough for me.
I'm always ready to help a fellow outcast."
Frank was beaming.
It seemed odd to Barry that someone with connections in the music and film industries would have a place out here in the middle of nowhere--but he was a novelist and refugee from California himself and should be the last person to generalize and stereotype about the type of people attracted to Bonita Vista. Again, he wondered about the patch, and he thought that maybe, despite the professorial appearance, Kenny Tolkin was like Norman Maclean , one of those outwardly cultured men with a rough-and-tumble rural background. It made as much sense as anything else.
"You know," Frank said, "with talents like you two, we oughtabe able to bring the fucking homeowners' association to its knees."
"I take it you're having a problem with the association?" Kenny derisively pronounced the word ASSociation "You could say that. I got a notice yesterday that I have to repaint the trim on my house. I just painted it last year, but apparently their inspectors found minute spots that are peeling on the south side, the side exposed to the sun. So either I try to find a massive ladder tall enough to reach the roof on the hill side and risk breaking my neck, or I shell out big bucks to have it painted."
Kenny shook his head. "That certainly sounds familiar. Last fall, I
received notice that I was to resurface the asphalt on my driveway. I'd had it done only the month before."
"So did you?"
"Hell no. I hosed off the driveway, sprayed off the dirt, and it looked as good as new. I called up and told them I'd done it, and I
haven't heard back from them since."
"Maybe I should just tell them I did it," Frank said. "Make them go up again and inspect it. Then have it done."
They all laughed.
Barry told how he'd gotten a notice to paint the chimney cap for their wood-burning stove and to pick up pinecones on the property. "There was one damn pine cone he said. "One! And for that they gave me a written notice?"
"Did you paint your chimney cap?"