did? He just whistled—and all these dogs came running out of the backyard. Young dogs. Puppies. Very cute. Then he points to them and makes a throat-slitting motion. That’s what was in the stew: Puppy. ‘El Woofaleah,’ the dish was called. Some ancient Mayan recipe, apparently. Or maybe it was Aztec. Whatever. Obviously, I was terribly upset. I happen to like puppies very much. But then Wayne got very serious. He told me that when he looked in the contestants’ eyes that evening, he wanted to be utterly without mercy. El Woofaleah had been his mental preparation—like he was Muhammad Ali, getting ready for a fight. ‘I don’t want to feel like a human being,’ he said. And in truth, I think it helped him during the broadcast. He single-handedly delivered the most exquisite cruelty that Americans had ever witnessed on live TV. Back then, remember, we’d all seen kids get voted off reality shows before. But what Wayne did… oh, it was very different. I mean, here was a guy who walked on stage knowing that he’d just eaten a puppy for breakfast. No one ever called it a ‘results show’ again after that. God, no—it was an elimination night.”
“This is a joke, right?” I said, wanting to throw up.
“Ask Wayne,” shrugged Crowther, as the intercom on his desk lit up. Crowther reached for the handset. “Okay, I’ll be right there, captain,” he said. Then, to me: “One moment. I’m needed on the bridge.” When he left the room, I put my head in my hands. So much information to process. Bill Redmond wasn’t on life support. ShowBiz reporters took bribes in exchange for positive coverage. Joey hadn’t jumped out of that plane. Wayne Shoreline ate puppies for breakfast.
I needed a drink of water. Looking around, I noticed an unopened bottle on Crowther’s desk, so I reached over to get it, glancing at his laptop as I did so. The e-mail program was running, with a message in the center of the screen. I tried not to look… but couldn’t resist. The “From” line was familiar enough, but the rest was in some unintelligible font. I peered closer—I couldn’t make out a single word—and then almost fell off my chair with fright when something moved against my right leg. False alarm: It was my phone, vibrating. Composing myself, I pulled it out of the buttoned cargo pocket on my thigh.
A text from Mitch:
“IT’S JOEY. COME QUICK. CYPRESS.”
I’d barely reached the word “Cypress”—which presumably meant Mount Cypress Medical Center in Beverly Hills—when Crowther returned. He seemed impatient now, colder.
“Okay,” he said. “Down to business. I want you to come and work for The Talent Machine. Bill’s been monitoring your progress at Icon, and thinks you’d make an excellent deputy. I can offer you a car—my assistant will coordinate between you and Aston Martin of Beverly Hills—plus the use of a penthouse at Seventy-eight La Brea. Salary: Two hundred thousand dollars, details to be agreed between my office and your representative. Only of course you don’t have a representative, so I’ll have to get you one of those, too. Oh, and while we’re on the subject, I hear you’re writing a novel, so I suppose you’d like to speak to my literary agent, Rick Ponderosa, who as I’m sure you know is the very best in New York.”
“This can’t be… real.”
“Well, it won’t be real unless you give me your answer in twelve hours. Which—as you know—is approximately two hours before the results of a certain pee test are due back from a certain laboratory in the San Fernando Valley. Although I suspect that Joey has more urgent problems to deal with, given his current location.”
I froze.
“How do you… who told you… ?”
“Please. I have my sources. David’s waiting for you in the chopper outside. I’m afraid the closest he can get to the hospital is Santa Monica Airport. You can order a cab from there. Remember, Sasha: Twelve hours. Yes or no.”
26
Room 709
JOEY PRACTICALLY KEPT an open suite at Mount Cypress Medical Center, ready to take him at a moment’s notice. It was one of those running jokes. “Call Cypress!” he’d yell to Mitch whenever something trivial was upsetting him. “Tell ’em to prepare my room. I’m comin’ in!” Everyone would laugh. But it didn’t seem so funny now.
He’d overdosed, according to Mitch’s second text, which had arrived when I was in the air.
It was bad.
After that, no more updates: Mitch had gone offline, wouldn’t pick up his phone. So