Brriing, briing.
Les put down what he was doing and fingered the button, “Is the house on fire?”
“No, sir,” Rosetta said. “A man named Neary want to talk to you.”
“You interrupted me in my Porn Room for that?”
“Oh, sorry, I did not know what that room was.”
“You didn’t?”
“No, you keep it locked, and forbid me to clean in there, right, sir?”
“Oh, yea . . . “
“You had called it your gym, as I recall.”
“Ah yes, the gym! Well, it’s still a gym of course, sometimes we just call it the Porn Room as a joke.”
“I see.”
“Ah, is Neary on the phone now?”
“No, sir. He’s standing right in front of me.”
“Ooh. Too bad for you. Be right there.”
He let go of the intercom button and got up off the Love Sac. He clicked pause on the dvd remote and set it aside, walked over barefoot to the shower.
Twenty minutes later he was relocking the Porn Room after leaving it, now freshly washed and clothed. He made his way upstairs and into the living room.
“Ah, Neary, you made it!” Les said.
“Made what?” Neary had been sitting on the couch perusing an old R.U. Sirius tome. He had an odd angular body that jutted out from everything. The giant mole on his neck was rumored to talk to you if you looked at it too long.
Neary stood up, lengthening out the wrinkles in his classic grey suit. “Made what?” he asked again. “We didn’t have an appointment, did we?”
“So why are you here, then?” Les asked, smiling.
“You do know who I am, right?” Neary asked.
Les considered him. “I’m thinking something having to do with computers?”
Neary sighed. “I run your website. Including your blog . . . ‘the gimmick-thing’ which you have not updated in months? Your agent told me to come down here and inspire you, or whatever. Traffic is way down, man. Adam Curry is probably getting more readers than you.”
Les looked perplex.
“Hm, but what would Paddy have done?”
“Paddy Chayevsky would definitely be blogging today. He’d be one of the political ones.” Neary said.
“I did agree to this, right?” Les asked.
“Uh, yeah, six months ago. Then you went full bore into it for 3 days. Since then, nothing. We even had a party to launch the thing before those 3 days. Bought advertising, etc.”
“I was a blogger for three days?”
Les turned his head up, trying to remember.
“Hey, uh, you got anything to drink in here?” Neary asked.
“Hm, no.” Les said, now looking around. Looking for Rosetta. He crossed to the hallway leading to the kitchen. “I mean, we have nothing alcoholic, sorry. But there’s you know, juice and water and stuff . . . “
“Could I have a glass of water, please?” Neary asked, clearing his throat.
“Sure, have a seat. I’ll be right back.”
Les scooted down the hallway, passed the kitchen, went up a flight of spiral stairs and found a phone.
“Missy,” he said. “Why did you send this guy over to harass me about some damned . . . website or something?”
“You need to do it, Les. Blogs are all the rage these days. It’ll help your script sales.”
“Wait a minute--you’re supposed to be helping with my script sales. That’s why you get a . . . what do you call it . . . percentage?”
“Very funny, Les. Perhaps if you had shown this, whaddya call it, funny side, then maybe Letterman woulda hired you after all.”
“You’re my agent! You’re supposed to prop me up, not keep poking my scars!”
“Listen to you--a random eavesdropper might think you weren’t successful, but you are, baby, you are. One current NYT bestseller, one hit HBO show, a running gig with the John Stewart show and a film due out directed by Current Hot Director Flavor number #990 . . . oh yea, and two Emmies and a Tony. But you gotta stay on top--and you gotta stay edgy--so right now at this agency we’re making all our top talents either start or go back to their blog. Sorry, Les, but you wanna stay the man, you gotta throw some gold onto the internet pan.”
“Ok, I’ll start tonite. Call him off me.”
“Nope, sorry. He’s there for a week, sweetheart.”
“What! A week! No way! I’m not having no goddamn babysitter! Who do you think I am, Courtney Love!?”
“Les, dear. You do this for mommy and mommy will secure the deal you always wanted--”
“No--”
“Yes--”
“That one?”
“The deal you told me was your dream deal to end all dream deals.”
“You don’t say.”
“I’m saying it.”
“Hot diggety-do.”
“I love you, too. So do me this favor, OK?”
“Yea,” Les said, slumping against the wall. Off to his right he could hear the vacuum cleaner suddenly down the hall. “This . . . Neary guy . . . he knows, er, remembers what the concept of this thing was?”
“’The Gimmick Thing’? Yea. In fact, he created it. Now get going, OK? I’m getting an email the next time you post, so I’ll be expecting the first one by midnight, ya?”
Les grunted and hung up. He still had to go downstairs and get Neary his water, but he also wanted to see what Rosetta was wearing today. He craned his neck around the corner and caught a glimpse of her from behind. Black shorts. Ooh. Short black shorts. Up, what’s this? Something sticking to the bottom of the vacuum? She bent over to investigate . . .
“Hey, Les! You up there?”
It was the kid at the bottom of the steps. Les cursed and went back. “Yea, be right down.” Then he slipped into the hallway and went to his bedroom. He picked up his stash, put on a jacket, grabbed his keys, and took the back entrance out, so that neither Rosetta or Neary heard him go.
He was in the black Volvo lighting a J, traveling down his side street now with the music on, when he remembered his promise to Zelny.