burrito and sucked the last bit of cola from around the ice cubes as he thought about his answer. The fact is, the shows could get made without his involvement at all. He served no real creative function beyond making sure the network was getting the show it paid for. But no network executive in town let his role stop there, not if he wanted to get anywhere in this business. The key was to seem involved enough in the show to take credit for all its success, but remain distant enough to take none of the blame for its failure. That was the mark of a great network executive.
“I provide guidance to the writers, producers, and directors,” Marty said. “I give very constructive notes.”
“You call that a fucking job?” Buck snorted.
“It’s a profession,” Marty replied, defensive. Why was he arguing with this man?
“What good is it going to do you now?”
“About as much as yours.”
“I got the fucking ability to survive out there,” Buck said. “What the fuck you got? Notes? Give me one of your great fucking notes.”
Marty looked him in the eye. The big, hulking, knuckle-dragging Neanderthal in a polyester suit and Treasure Island casino tie.
“It’s encumbrance,” Marty said, “not cucumbrance.”
Buck leaned slowly forward. “What the fuck you say?”
“You said you don’t want any cucumbrances,” Marty sneered. “Sounds like you don’t want to carry around any vegetables.”
Buck yanked out his gun and put the barrel right against Marty’s forehead. “One squeeze and you become a cucumbrance.”
Marty froze. The sheer idiocy of the situation struck him more than the fear of death. He’d survived the earthquake, only to get killed because he stopped to eat a Kosher burrito and correct a sociopath’s pronunciation. No one else in the place seemed to notice. They hadn’t noticed the earthquake, why should they notice a murder?
Marty held Buck’s fish-eyed gaze for a long moment. But instead of shooting, Buck broke into a smile and shoved the gun back into his holster.
“Get it? A fucking cucumbrance.” Buck clapped Marty on the shoulder, two friendly cavemen sharing a fire. “You didn’t think I was a funny guy, did you?”
Marty could still feel the imprint of the barrel against his forehead. He quickly got up and swept his stuff back into his pack. It was time to get the hell out of here. Why had he stopped in the first place?
“You’re right, that was a great fucking note,” Buck said, getting to his feet, blocking Marty’s escape. “You got some balls.”
One noticeably larger than the other, or so he’d been told, a condition that could explain his indecisiveness, undue caution, and unmotivated sperm.
“I just want to go home,” Marty said.
“Which way you headed?”
“West.”
Buck put his arm around Marty and dragged him into the street. “What do you know? So am I.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The Lights Are Much Brighter There, You Can Forget All Your Troubles, Forget All Your Cares
12 :25 p.m. Tuesday
The streets were clogged with people now, hundreds of government workers, lawyers, jurors, marshals, judges, transients, parking lot attendants, and LA Times reporters. They milled around, trying to stay clear of the burning buses, the smoking cars, the fallen buildings, the wailing of the injured, the stink of the dead.
Buck pushed and shoved his way through them, clearing a path for himself and Marty up 1st Street as it rose over Bunker Hill. Marty realized there might be some advantages to having Buck along after all.
Marty had only traveled a mile or two since leaving the set, but it was a hard walk, making his way over ruined streets strewn with chunks of disgorged asphalt. Already his feet felt swollen, his knees were sore, and he was gasping for breath. If he kept deteriorating like this, Marty thought, he might need Buck to give him CPR in a couple more miles. He resolved at that moment to go back to the gym and use that membership, if the gym was
“I provide guidance to the writers, producers, and directors,” Marty said. “I give very constructive notes.”
“You call that a fucking job?” Buck snorted.
“It’s a profession,” Marty replied, defensive. Why was he arguing with this man?
“What good is it going to do you now?”
“About as much as yours.”
“I got the fucking ability to survive out there,” Buck said. “What the fuck you got? Notes? Give me one of your great fucking notes.”
Marty looked him in the eye. The big, hulking, knuckle-dragging Neanderthal in a polyester suit and Treasure Island casino tie.
“It’s encumbrance,” Marty said, “not cucumbrance.”
Buck leaned slowly forward. “What the fuck you say?”
“You said you don’t want any cucumbrances,” Marty sneered. “Sounds like you don’t want to carry around any vegetables.”
Buck yanked out his gun and put the barrel right against Marty’s forehead. “One squeeze and you become a cucumbrance.”
Marty froze. The sheer idiocy of the situation struck him more than the fear of death. He’d survived the earthquake, only to get killed because he stopped to eat a Kosher burrito and correct a sociopath’s pronunciation. No one else in the place seemed to notice. They hadn’t noticed the earthquake, why should they notice a murder?
Marty held Buck’s fish-eyed gaze for a long moment. But instead of shooting, Buck broke into a smile and shoved the gun back into his holster.
“Get it? A fucking cucumbrance.” Buck clapped Marty on the shoulder, two friendly cavemen sharing a fire. “You didn’t think I was a funny guy, did you?”
Marty could still feel the imprint of the barrel against his forehead. He quickly got up and swept his stuff back into his pack. It was time to get the hell out of here. Why had he stopped in the first place?
“You’re right, that was a great fucking note,” Buck said, getting to his feet, blocking Marty’s escape. “You got some balls.”
One noticeably larger than the other, or so he’d been told, a condition that could explain his indecisiveness, undue caution, and unmotivated sperm.
“I just want to go home,” Marty said.
“Which way you headed?”
“West.”
Buck put his arm around Marty and dragged him into the street. “What do you know? So am I.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The Lights Are Much Brighter There, You Can Forget All Your Troubles, Forget All Your Cares
12 :25 p.m. Tuesday
The streets were clogged with people now, hundreds of government workers, lawyers, jurors, marshals, judges, transients, parking lot attendants, and LA Times reporters. They milled around, trying to stay clear of the burning buses, the smoking cars, the fallen buildings, the wailing of the injured, the stink of the dead.
Buck pushed and shoved his way through them, clearing a path for himself and Marty up 1st Street as it rose over Bunker Hill. Marty realized there might be some advantages to having Buck along after all.
Marty had only traveled a mile or two since leaving the set, but it was a hard walk, making his way over ruined streets strewn with chunks of disgorged asphalt. Already his feet felt swollen, his knees were sore, and he was gasping for breath. If he kept deteriorating like this, Marty thought, he might need Buck to give him CPR in a couple more miles. He resolved at that moment to go back to the gym and use that membership, if the gym was
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