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look gorgeous.”
    Gaining the strength to squint at her, I say, finally, “The better you look, the more you see.”
30
    Back at my place downtown getting dressed to meet Chloe at Bowery Bar by 10 I’m moving around my apartment cell phone in hand on hold to my agent at CAA. I’m lighting citrus-scented votive candles to help mellow the room out, ease the tension, plus it’s so freezing in my apartment it’s like an igloo. Black turtleneck, white jeans, Matsuda jacket, slippers, simple and cool. Music playing is low-volume Weezer. TV’s on—no sound—with highlights from the shows today at Bryant Park, Chloe everywhere. Finally a click, a sigh, muffled voices in the background, Bill sighing again.
    “Bill? Hello?” I’m saying. “Bill? What are you doing? Getting fawned over on Melrose? Sitting there with a headset on, looking like you belong in an air traffic controllers’ room at LAX?”
    “Do I need to remind you that I am more powerful than you?” Bill asks tiredly. “Do I need to remind you that a headset is mandatory?”
    “You’re my broker of opportunity, baby.”
    “Hopefully I will benefit from you.”
    “So baby, what’s going on with
Flatliners II?
The script is like almost brill. What’s the story?”
    “The story?” Bill asks quietly. “The story is: I was at a screening this morning and the product had some exceptional qualities. It was accessible, well-structured and not particularly sad, but it proved strangelyunsatisfying. It might have something to do with the fact that the product would have been better acted by hand puppets.”
    “What movie was this?”
    “It doesn’t have a title yet,” Bill murmurs. “It’s kind of like
Caligula
meets
The Breakfast Club.”
    “I think I’ve seen this movie. Twice, in fact. Now listen, Bill—”
    “I spent a good deal of lunch at Barney Greengrass today staring at the Hollywood Hills, listening to someone trying to sell me a pitch about a giant pasta maker that goes on some kind of sick rampage.”
    I turn the TV off, search the apartment for my watch. “And … your thoughts?”
    “‘How near death am I?’” Bill pauses. “I don’t think I should be thinking things like that at twenty-eight. I don’t think I should be thinking things like that at Barney Greengrass.”
    “Well, Bill, you
are
twenty-eight.”
    “Touching a seltzer bottle that sat in a champagne bucket brought me back to what passes for reality, and drinking half an egg cream solidified that process. The pitcher finally tried to make jokes and I tried to laugh.” A pause. “Having dinner at the Viper Room started to seem vaguely plausible, like, i.e., not a bad evening.”
    I open the glass-door refrigerator, grab a blood orange and roll my eyes, muttering “Spare me” to myself while peeling it.
    “At that lunch,” Bill continues, “someone from a rival agency came up behind me and superglued a large starfish to the back of my head for reasons I’m still not sure of.” Pause. “Two junior agents are, at this moment, trying to remove it.”
    “Whoa, baby,” I cough. “You’re making too much noise right now.”
    “As we speak I am also having my photo taken for
Buzz
magazine by Fahoorzi Zaheedi .…” Pause, not to me: “That’s not how
you
pronounce it? Do you think just because it’s
your
name that
you
know?”
    “Billy? Bill—hey, what is this?” I’m asking.
“Buzz
, man? That’s a magazine for flies, baby. Come on, Bill, what’s going on with
Flatliners II?
I read the script and though I found structural problems and made some notes I still think it’s brill and
you
know and
I
know that I’m perfect for the part of Ohman.” I pop another slice of blood orange into my mouth and, while chewing, tell Bill, “And I think Alicia Silverstone would be perfect for the part of Julia Roberts’ troubled sister, Froufrou.”
    “I had a date with Alicia Silverstone last night,” Bill says vacantly. “Tomorrow, Drew Barrymore.” Pause.