The Cutting Room by Laurence Klavan

toward his lap and shook his head
no
. They had no bathroom.
    Finally, I pantomimed chugging from a bottle, then wiping off my mouth, an insane tourist who would not leave without this one beverage. Tired of jerking me around, he directed me to a refrigerated case.
    The stuff itself was sweet and slightly sickening. But Fizz was not what I was after. I peeled off the label with a key, careful not to tear the company name and its address: Cheruba, Inc., 76 Pasaje de Gracia.
    I had someone to thank for this. Seeing from the street that his light was still on, I started back to Ron’s office above the theater. I took his stairs two at a time, propelled by an urgency I did not quite understand.
    When I entered, the place seemed empty. All I heard was a faint, creaking sound coming from within.
    “Ron?”
    I saw the empty chair first, placed in the center of the floor. Above it, Ron swung, attached by his own belt to a steel fan on the ceiling, which was not turned on. Each tiny swivel of his body turned the blades a bit, which was where the squeak had come from.
    His feet were still twitching. All of my senses keen, I stood on the rickety chair beside him. It took several endless seconds to rest Ron’s left hip and butt on my shoulder, and ease the pull on his neck.
    Then I reached up and, just quickly enough, began to gently unloop the belt.
    Right then, I figured that
Singin’ in the Rain
was just about done.
    On Barcelona’s ritzy shopping drag, Cheruba, Inc., was in a Gaudi-designed building, which dripped in the architect’s trademark Dr. Seuss–like style.
    The head of public relations for Cheruba was a polite, middle-aged man named Mr. Fuenta. He made an appointment with me right away. My occupation had piqued his interest.
    “What kind of movies do you produce in America?” he asked.
    Behind his desk, he was holding one of the fake business cards Ben had supplied me with. I smiled, with a sly, producer-ish air.
    “I’m preparing a project with Ben Williams now, actually,” I said. “It’s in the early stages, but Ben is wonderful to work with.”
    Fuenta was highly impressed. His English was impeccable, better than his grasp of Hollywood specifics.
    “Well, he’s a very good actor,” he said, “as is Rosie Burnett.”
    “Yes. Rosie
Bryant
, actually, is interested in our piece as well.”
    Fuenta nodded, and muttered abashedly, “Bryant.” He took out a little pad and started to make notes.
    “And what is the story?” he asked.
    “Well, it’s a”—and here I was totally vamping—“a love story. A very powerful love story. And there are, you know, space elements.”
    “Space?”
    “Outer space, yes.”
    “I see.” He scribbled. “And how do you see Fizz being involved? Would they drink it in space or . . . here on Earth?”
    I paused. “Fizz?”
    “Yes. I’m assuming this is about product placement.”
    I hadn’t even thought of that, but obviously I should have.
    It had been several days since Ron Gaylord’s attempted suicide, and I was just getting back to business. Despite the fact that he had seen Erendira’s picture moments before, his motive did not seem to be suspicious. Maybe that was the saddest part about it.
    I looked at Mr. Fuenta, regaining my concentration. His assumption of a business tie-in was going to be hard to backtrack from, but I had to try.
    “Well,” I said, “that’s something we’re looking at. We’d love to be in business with Fizz.”
    Fuenta was quietly thrilled. “International exposure is exactly what we’re looking for. Penetration into the American market is, of course, one of our goals.”
    Fuenta began to pass me spread sheets detailing the amazing growth of Fizz from a mere mite on the Spanish scene to a giant. Or, at least, that was what they were projecting for the future.
    I had to get out before I got in too deep.
    “That’s down the road, though,” I said, his charts piled in my lap. “What’s really piqued our interest, and the