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swallowed it down.
    “I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t have a tic. Maybe he was winking at me. Maybe he wanted a new friend. We got more people coming in?”
    Marty nodded, stood. Went over to the shutters andplayed with them, opening and closing the slanting lids as he rubbed the back of his neck. He wore a flannel shirt and hiking boots, and his front teeth were so prominent, he looked like a Bugs Bunny lumberjack. Being the nuts-and-bolts guy, making sure all the technical crap stayed on track, making sure the set ran efficiently was his personal leukemia; he wasn’t dead yet, but it was only a matter of time.
    “The network called me again. They’re having this blood-pressure problem.”
    “I know,” said Alan.
    “Do you? We’re facing some real prep-time problems here. They want this thing in two months.” Marty turned, pointing to the empty, video cassette shelf above the studio-type monitor. “We got zip. They don’t like zip.”
    “Hey, whattya want me to do, pour Doug Henning outta my dick? It’s gotta be right. I wanna get the pilot story and everything right. I mean what’s the point? If they’re that desperate … I mean, Christ.”
    Alan looked depressed and Marty gave him a compassionate nod; a soothing, rabbi backpacker. Marty smiled. “Hey, how about Art Garfunkel as the Mercenary? He’d be great.” He looked at Alan, landed his glance on amused eyes. They were both exhausted.
    “This is getting extremely ridiculous. A whole town full of guys who’d kill to be this guy and so far we’ve read a bunch of golf clubs.” Alan rubbed tired eyes.
    “You didn’t like that guy yesterday? ‘Tech’?”
    “That was really his name?”
    “Comes very highly recommended by MTM. He was second in line to play Arnold Becker on ‘L.A. Law.’ Done a lot of great stuff.”
    Alan paced. “Love the name.”
    “Not his idea. It was his agent. Told me he thought it would set him apart.”
    “Yeah. But not get him one.” Alan popped a Trident, leaned against the wall.
    Marty glanced at his watch, scowled. “Gotta get to Citrus. My ex is bringing her attorney and I’m bringing mine. She wants an extra sixpack of my blood every month.”
    “Who’s her guy?”
    “Marvin Roth …”
    “Roth? Guy’s a fuckin’ weasel. Wear steel mesh.” “My guy’s good.”
    “Roth’s better. He’s the attorney represented that eleven-year-old who said Jim Croce’s remains raped her.” No reaction. “Marty? I’m kidding …” Marty didn’t react and Alan hummed “Operator” to annoy him.
    Marty pressed on. “… I gotta split. Do something about this, will ya? I don’t want to go back to producing game shows.”
    “Game shows are great. Be a guy.”
    Marty was at the door, grabbing the knob.
    “Remember … two months. You don’t make a decision, they’ll make it for us.”
    He slammed the door and Alan sighed, staring at the glossy of Tech and grabbing his Bic disposable. He lit the corner of Tech’s chin and the flames crept to lips and nose. Alan tabbed a Diet Coke open and watched Tech’s face burning beyond recognition as he emptied the can.
    “Thanks for coming in,” he said, feeling the Ganges rising in his brain. He closed red eyes. Slumped.
    Listened to the air conditioner humming Alaskasounds. Tried to imagine himself in a cool lake, floating. Spinning; a wet second hand. Tried to feel the chill water holding him in a clear hand. Tried to stay there forever.
    He heard his door open and close.
    When he opened his eyes, a man was seated before his desk staring at him. His skin was rough, like he’d worked oil rigs or construction. His eyes were subzero; executioner remote. Hair black. Longish. Alan could imagine him stabbing children and listening for the tiny screams like it was Beethoven. He was no more than forty but the years clearly came hard, with pain. He stared at Alan.
    “Who are you?” asked Alan, unnerved by the way the man swallowed him whole with a direct