Which is where I came in.
"That's a helluva story, kid," I said.
He looked away, nodded.
A shapely rollerblader came blading by. She was followed immediately by a stumbling bum, either drunk or high. The bum was followed, in turn, by a limping golden retriever. The retriever stayed close to the bum and I was briefly touched by the creature's loyalty. I suspected the dog was the only thing keeping the man alive through sheer love, devotion and protection.
There were tears in David's eyes. It's bad enough losing one mother, but this kid had lost two.
The bum curled up in the fetal position on the grass near the lake, using his arm as a pillow. The golden retriever curled up next to him, ever watchful, keeping his drunken owner safe. A woman nearby immediately got up from the grass and left, shoving one of those e-reader thingies into her purse.
"I don't really care about the money," said David.
I nodded. The dog lay its fuzzy muzzle across the back of the unconscious man, who was now snoring loudly.
"I just want to know what happened to her," he said.
I nodded again, and watched the dog close its eyes, although its ears remained ever alert.
Chapter Five
I was with my girlfriend, Roxi, at a restaurant called Fred 62.
A weird name for a place with great food. I'm sure the restaurant had all sorts of history, too, although I didn't know it. But I was willing to bet that guys like Cagney and Hudson and Rooney all had eaten here at one point or another. Maybe Elizabeth Taylor had gotten shit-faced drunk in a back booth. Or John Wayne had punched out some asshole for asking too many lame questions. Maybe. I didn't know, but the place had an old Hollywood feel to it. Ancient vinyl booths. Old wood paneling. Old posters. Hip energy. And set right in the heart of Los Feliz, itself just north of bustling Hollywood.
"I think David Schwimmer is eating behind us," said Roxi. She sounded very excited.
"You mean Ross?"
"Yeah, Ross. And don't say 'Where's Rachel?'"
"Where's Rachel?"
"Dumb ass."
But she was right. At least I think she was right. Behind a head of neatly trimmed dark hair flashed the occasional profile of the Friends' star. He was with a beautiful woman, and they were sitting across from another beautiful couple.
"I think you're right," I said. "It's all very exciting."
"You don't look very excited."
"I live and work in L.A. I see stars all the time. So far, I have yet to see one of them levitate or turn water into wine."
She pouted. "You're such a party-pooper." But even as she said those words, I saw her brain turning. Steam practically issued from her ears.
"Oh, no," I said, catching on. "He doesn't want to read your screenplay."
"But he's a director now. This could be my big break."
"I doubt it."
"You don't believe in me?"
"Oh, I believe in you, but I doubt this is your big break."
She pouted some more and seemed to refocus on her menu. "It's a good screenplay."
"I know," I said. "I read it." Which was mostly true. I had skimmed it. I found that focusing on anything for too long was nearly impossible these days. It's hard to read words when you still hear your son screaming.