The Non-Pro by Adam Novak

Author:Adam Novak
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Salvo Press
Published: 2014-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

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For 20 minutes I’ve been driving from Barney’s Greengrass to Barney’s Beanery near La Cienega. I’m super pissed off at this asshole for going to the wrong place. But he’s someone important to Lester so I’m the one preparing an apology for my tardiness. Inside Barney’s, the malevolent director sits at the end of the bar, his face shrouded in shadow. I figure: this must be him, so I put on a big smile as I approach FranklinBrauner—

“What excuse does Lester send this time?”

His tone is so nasty I am taken aback.

“He’s on the party plane to Acapulco,” I say.

“With DQ,” he says. “You’re only forty minutes late.”

“I went to the wrong Barney’s. My fault,” I say.

“You’re the one everyone’s talking about.”

“Correct.”

“The lit manager.”

“That’s what I do, not who I am. I have yet to confuse a career for a life, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“The way Lester raves, you’re a literary messiah.”

“Don’t believe the hype,” I wave magnanimously.

“You shouldn’t feign modesty, it doesn’t wear well on you. Learn to accept compliments. A simple thank you will do, every time.”

“I loved Alamogordo, saw it the other night at—”

“Please. Don’t be an asshole. Sit down,” he says.

“Let’s get a booth, we can talk about your script—”

“Excuse me! You think because you have an expense account you can rush me!”

Despite the anger flaring inside me, I take a deep breath, try a different tack to tame this rabid, fang-baring beast:

“We can stay right here at the bar. What are you having there, Franklin? What is that, vodka?”

“I don’t drink. You may order me another seltzer.”

Bartender, resembling a construction worker, comes by to take our order.

“Another one for my friend here. I need a margarita, salt, Patron Silver.”

“Interesting choice of tequila. You’re doomed if you keep aping Lester Barnes.”

“I don’t ape.”

“The higher the monkey climbs the pole, the more we see its ass.”

“Deep, Franklin.”

The director laughs, hacking into a body-racking coughing spasm.

“The Israelis (cough! cough!) pulled out today.”

“Out of what, the West Bank?”

“Sky Kings.”

“Lester said you had diamond merchants financing the film?”

“I had a cast, a crew (cough! cough!), a start date and a million dollars. Last minute: one guy drops out, Israeli partner gets nervous, needs to talk to his wife, they all get Catholic, everybody pulls out,” he says.

“Franklin, that’s heartbreaking.”

“Now I have to tell the crew, my actors, ‘Terribly sorry you turned down jobs to make my movie, but the (cough! cough!) money fell out.’ Agents, I’m sure, will trash my name in staff meetings so I’ll never, ever, get a soul on the phone, or a set, for that matter, if I ever get (cough! cough!) off the ground.”

I sip my margarita: too strong, my stomach instantly revolts.

“Look at it this way: now you’re available,” I say.

Inside his jacket pocket, Franklin Brauner shows me a gleaming pistol.

“I love the line in Taxi Driver where Marty asks DeNiro ‘Did you ever see what a .44 magnum can do to a woman’s pussy? Now that you should see—’”

“Franklin, put that thing

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