extra money (which would solve a number of increasingly pressing financial issues), but also because it gave me a legitimate excuse to turn down Nigel Crowther’s two hundred thousand dollars a year. It also meant that I could see Project Icon through until at least the end of season thirteen, and as horrifically dysfunctional as my colleagues at Greenlit Studios might have been, I’d become fond of many of them: Mitch and Joey, Mu and Sue, the crew guys I went drinking with every so often (all right, a lot). Even Nico DeLuca, the strange-voiced barista, who’d started to leave freshly brewed americanos inside my cubicle at Greenlit Studios every morning, thus sparing me from the green room’s 1998-vintage jar of instant coffee. And Len? Sure, he was an asshole, and yet… no, actually, he was just an asshole. But that didn’t stop me from feeling a certain loyalty to him.
Then I remembered something.
Oh, crap, how could I have forgotten? I looked at the time on my phone. Nigel Crowther’s deadline had passed, but another was approaching. “Joey,” I said, urgently. “Your pee test.”
“Huh?” he replied, sounding bored.
“Your pee test. It’s due back from the lab this morning.”
“Oh.”
“Joey, you took my pills. You took the whole bottle. That stuff doesn’t leave your system for months. You’re going to fail. What are you gonna tell Len? He doesn’t even know you’re here, does he? And what if ShowBiz—”
“Will you relax already?” said Joey. “First of all, Len will never know. Doc says I can leave here after lunch, before rehearsal. And the pee test? Seriously, man, not a problem. All you’ve got to worry about is getting on the phone to Brick or Brack, or whatever the fuck your invisible boyfriend is called, and tell him your plans have changed, and that he needs to get his ass over to LAX. And don’t be surprised if he pulls some bullshit excuse. In fact, if he ain’t already boning some hula-skirted surf princess with a snatch as tight as a bee’s fuckin’ asshole, I’ll eat my own underwear. No offence. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna watch some TV here and play a game of five-knuckle shuffle under the covers. You’re welcome to stay for the main event—but if I were you, I’d go make that call.”
With that, Joey waved a remote at the TV, and the screen lit up like the scoreboard at the Super Bowl. It was tuned to one of the local Rabbit channels; the kind that employ young and invariably blonde female anchors to wear lipstick and strapless dresses while reading the news at ten a.m. Just what Joey needed.
I grabbed my jacket and got up to leave.
“See you later, Joey,” I said. “Enjoy the ‘news.’”
I was halfway to the door when I heard the smash and clatter. Joey’s breakfast tray had slid off the bed, creating a slick of coffee and orange juice under my feet. A muffin rolled in the direction of BLT, who seemed baffled and yet duly grateful for this unrequested gift from above. When I looked over at Joey, he had the remains of an omelet in his lap and was half out of bed, pointing dementedly.
It was the TV.
The local Rabbit channel was showing live news footage from a helicopter. The camera was pointed at the side of a high-rise building somewhere—but the image wasn’t quite in focus. Then it zoomed slightly, and the clarity improved. Through the window—which must have spanned thirty or forty feet—it was now possible to make out the interior of some kind of upscale condominium. In the center of the main room was a huge bed, surrounded by wheeled cabinets of some kind, and a figure sitting up on the mattress, arms outretched. Behind him was another figure, near the door. She had… red hair and looked…
Oh, Jesus, we were on TV.
Joey was now stabbing furiously at the remote, trying to raise the volume.
“… infamously described as ‘Joey Dumbass’ by President Reagan for his parachute-less jump over Manhattan…”
Every phone in the room began to ring. I didn’t know which one to answer first, so I just stood there, uselessly, watching myself stand there, uselessly, on the giant screen.
“… troubled history of extreme behavior, resulting in a decade-long visit to the Betty Ford…”
Joey was out of bed now, heading for the window. His robe had fallen away, leaving him completely naked—a vision of ruined human anatomy, like one of those cautionary photographs they put on cigarette packs