of cordite. Smoke drifted from the nozzle.
“I got you!” Bryce yelped. He folded to his knee and wheezed like a seal. “I got you motherfucker!”
Beau grabbed his rib cage and then— what? It took him this long to realize he hadn’t really been shot: the two ear-splitting pops had been enough to make his heart stop.
“Jesus.” Beau’s voice was dull in his ears, blunted by the noise at close range. “What did you d—blanks? Those were blanks?”
“Yep.” Bryce laughed. “I had you there.”
Beau stood. His belly slopped over the twisted top of the white sheet. Bryce twirled the gun around on his finger, then handed it over to Beau.
“You know who gave me this? John Wayne hisself.”
“Put some pants on. I don’t like to be shot by someone in the nude, it’s like being an adulterer.”
“It’s a nice gun.” Bryce took the gun back. “I could hunt with this thing.”
“Then why don’t you?” Beau pointed toward the sea. “Go out there and shoot us some fish.”
“Aw, don’t try me, Rosers. Be a good guest.”
He set the pistol on the counter and spun it. Round and round until it rested, pointing somewhere harmlessly between them. It shoots blanks , Beau thought. What could happen? What worse was going to come to them? Just then he couldn’t get a job to save his life, and Bryce’s career really hadn’t followed the lines it was supposed to either. Nicholson had become the star instead. Who would’ve guessed that? Bryce handed him a plate of some suspicious-looking eggs: they were brownish-green, and scrambled. Beau sniffed.
“What’s in these?”
“Nothin’. I made yours light.”
Beau took the plate. Some weird stuff, Beller was into. Transcendental meditation, yoga, running. What sort of person deliberately ran for miles on end, without really going anywhere? Beau turned away, to stare at the Pacific and eat his eggs in peace.
What’s the matter with Beau?
After the pissing episode, some people obviously began to wonder. But right now the biggest problem was a certain constriction of his options. He’d gone back to New York for a while, but that life—in his native habitat, closer to his kids even if Rachel didn’t want him to see them—amounted to nothing. Was he supposed to produce plays, or drive a taxi? Here there was some hope, however faint, of resurrection. Friends had landed in medium-high places. Jeremy Vana was an executive vice president at Columbia Pictures. No one could be too helpful. Sam still wielded a lot of influence. But Beau’s day might eventually come.
It was around this time I first met him. Not that either of us recognized what it meant. My mother had married Teddy Sanders, Beau’s former colleague in TAG ’s motion picture department. Did Teddy have any inkling I was not his own child? I can’t imagine he cared too much, if he did. Those were different times, and while I strongly suspect Teddy knew, my mother never told Beau. Not for a long time. Why she waited, I’ll never know either. She’d left the agency not long after she started dating Teddy. He could’ve done the math. But Teddy and Beau had been colleagues, and so I remember him having the fat man over to dinner together with Williams, my mother cooking pepper steaks and uncorking bottle upon bottle of Margaux. Both men were indelible: my kindergarten classmate’s father for his sleek and mellow elegance, and as for Beau, who could forget a person of that size? But I was too young to understand trouble, to know that the huge man roaring with laughter in the next room, keeping me awake with profane jokes, could in fact be close to suicidal.
“What do you think it is,” my mother murmured when he left the table to hit the head. “What’s Beau’s problem?”
“You worked for him.” Teddy gave her a sly glance. “Wasn’t he always like this?”
“Not like this,” Will drawled. “This is different.”
My mother nodded. “He seems . . . desperate. I think there’s
“I got you!” Bryce yelped. He folded to his knee and wheezed like a seal. “I got you motherfucker!”
Beau grabbed his rib cage and then— what? It took him this long to realize he hadn’t really been shot: the two ear-splitting pops had been enough to make his heart stop.
“Jesus.” Beau’s voice was dull in his ears, blunted by the noise at close range. “What did you d—blanks? Those were blanks?”
“Yep.” Bryce laughed. “I had you there.”
Beau stood. His belly slopped over the twisted top of the white sheet. Bryce twirled the gun around on his finger, then handed it over to Beau.
“You know who gave me this? John Wayne hisself.”
“Put some pants on. I don’t like to be shot by someone in the nude, it’s like being an adulterer.”
“It’s a nice gun.” Bryce took the gun back. “I could hunt with this thing.”
“Then why don’t you?” Beau pointed toward the sea. “Go out there and shoot us some fish.”
“Aw, don’t try me, Rosers. Be a good guest.”
He set the pistol on the counter and spun it. Round and round until it rested, pointing somewhere harmlessly between them. It shoots blanks , Beau thought. What could happen? What worse was going to come to them? Just then he couldn’t get a job to save his life, and Bryce’s career really hadn’t followed the lines it was supposed to either. Nicholson had become the star instead. Who would’ve guessed that? Bryce handed him a plate of some suspicious-looking eggs: they were brownish-green, and scrambled. Beau sniffed.
“What’s in these?”
“Nothin’. I made yours light.”
Beau took the plate. Some weird stuff, Beller was into. Transcendental meditation, yoga, running. What sort of person deliberately ran for miles on end, without really going anywhere? Beau turned away, to stare at the Pacific and eat his eggs in peace.
What’s the matter with Beau?
After the pissing episode, some people obviously began to wonder. But right now the biggest problem was a certain constriction of his options. He’d gone back to New York for a while, but that life—in his native habitat, closer to his kids even if Rachel didn’t want him to see them—amounted to nothing. Was he supposed to produce plays, or drive a taxi? Here there was some hope, however faint, of resurrection. Friends had landed in medium-high places. Jeremy Vana was an executive vice president at Columbia Pictures. No one could be too helpful. Sam still wielded a lot of influence. But Beau’s day might eventually come.
It was around this time I first met him. Not that either of us recognized what it meant. My mother had married Teddy Sanders, Beau’s former colleague in TAG ’s motion picture department. Did Teddy have any inkling I was not his own child? I can’t imagine he cared too much, if he did. Those were different times, and while I strongly suspect Teddy knew, my mother never told Beau. Not for a long time. Why she waited, I’ll never know either. She’d left the agency not long after she started dating Teddy. He could’ve done the math. But Teddy and Beau had been colleagues, and so I remember him having the fat man over to dinner together with Williams, my mother cooking pepper steaks and uncorking bottle upon bottle of Margaux. Both men were indelible: my kindergarten classmate’s father for his sleek and mellow elegance, and as for Beau, who could forget a person of that size? But I was too young to understand trouble, to know that the huge man roaring with laughter in the next room, keeping me awake with profane jokes, could in fact be close to suicidal.
“What do you think it is,” my mother murmured when he left the table to hit the head. “What’s Beau’s problem?”
“You worked for him.” Teddy gave her a sly glance. “Wasn’t he always like this?”
“Not like this,” Will drawled. “This is different.”
My mother nodded. “He seems . . . desperate. I think there’s
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