a good guy, settle down in the country, and have kids. Wow, Sash. That dude sucks ass. And he’s never even been over to visit you? Not once? Some guys have no idea how lucky… anyway, I’m glad you dumped him. I’m sorry. But I’m glad.”
“I don’t know what to say, Boris.”
“You don’t always have to contact me through eCupidMatch, y’know,” he replied. “You’ve got my e-mail, right? And you can call. Anytime. My number’s in your phone.”
“I’m actually gonna shut down that eCupidMatch account,” I said, my voice hardening. “As soon as I get home, trust me. I’m going to talk to my, uh, service provider, and I’m going to tell her to mind her own goddamn business from now on. I mean, uh, I’m going to, y’know, terminate my profile. I’m over it, to be honest with you.”
“Hey,” said Boris, “how’d you like to come over this Saturday and taste my granddad’s—”
“Don’t say it.”
“Meatballs. He was Polish: left me some great recipes. I’m having some friends over at noon.”
“I’d love that, Boris. But I gotta go. Sorry. My boss is calling me over. Speak later.”
“Okay, talk to you—”
Click.
Truth was, Len wasn’t anywhere to be seen. I was just out of breath.
I liked Boris.
Way too much.
24
The Talent and the Glory
IT WAS DARK BY the time I left Greenlit Studios. One of those surprisingly cold LA nights—with a huge, bright moon, the kind that follows you around so much, you feel like taking out a restraining order. The coyotes would be out later, I suspected, howling down from the hills. I wondered if Joey would do what he usually did on such occasions, and climb onto the roof of his house to howl right back at them.
Not likely. It had been weeks now since Joey’s relapse, but he still hadn’t returned to his former self. He was clean, at least: Mitch had established this beyond any reasonable doubt—with Mu and Sue acting as round-the-clock enforcers.
But Joey’s funk hadn’t lifted. Which meant he was still—I swear—the most boring judge on the panel. “Yeah, that was nice, man,” went his tediously predictable nightly criticisms. “You did great.” If Project Icon hadn’t been in mortal danger, Ed Rossitto would almost certainly have fired him by now. Ironically, it was the show’s weakness that had convinced Ed against such a radical move. Project Icon couldn’t afford to make itself look vulnerable, not now. A midseason panel rethink would do exactly that. To the likes of Chaz Chipford at ShowBiz, it would be like seeing blood in the water. Instead, the show had to pretend it was still invincible. Hence Wayne’s repeated claim that season thirteen had generated “more votes than any previous season in the HISTORY of our show”—without any acknowledgment that this was possible only because Rabbit had started to count the results of spam surveys and pop-up ads on third-party websites. In reality, the number of telephone votes was down by eighty percent…
I checked the time on my cell phone as I walked out into the parking lot: almost nine o’clock. The place was empty. Just Two Svens’ Bugatti convertible, some crew vehicles, and my bicycle—its frame and front wheel chained to the fence. It was so cold, I had to pull my cardigan sweater tight around me and readjust the belt. Then a rush of air behind me. Turning, I saw Len’s dark green Jaguar, which had come to a halt noiselessly about five feet away. The window was down, framing Len’s Merm between the chrome pillars. Beside him was his wife, the scowling woman from accounts. I remembered her from my first day.
“Good work with that dress,” said Len. “At last, you’re learning. Now let’s hope those tits translate into to some fucking ratings tomorrow. From what I hear, Sir Harold is due back first thing. We need all the help we can get, Billy the Kiddo.”
“Here’s hoping,” I said, feeling dirtied by the compliment.
“Well, good night. Sleep well in Siberia.”
Len’s grin disappeared behind privacy glass as the Jaguar pulled away. After a few yards, however, the car stopped again. The window reopened. Len had forgotten something.
“Oh, and Bill,” he called out. “I don’t know if you’re going for some kind of ironic dweeb look or something, but I think those glasses are the worst thing I’ve seen you wear to date. And frankly they’re up against some pretty impressive competition.”
“They’re my emergency backup pair,” I protested.
“They’re an emergency in their own right, Bill,” said Len. “For God’s sake, buy