The Player by Michael Tolkin Page B

whose names he’d forgotten. He walked up the long path to the lobby and felt like a millionaire, felt beyond the touch of anxiety.
    In the lobby he heard his name called, and turned quickly, in fear, to greet Andy Civella, a rock-and-roll manager, heavy, with a beard, thick hair, and sunglasses. Griffin liked Civella. The manager was a pirate, and after an hour with him Griffin always felt like he did when he’d seen a James Bond film. He was contagiously bold. Civella made Griffin feel invincible and rich. Standing a little behind Civella was Tom Oakley, an English director who had been famous three years ago, that year’s boy genius, but two fifteen-million-dollar movies had died, and now he looked tired, a little whipped. Still, he hadn’t lost the odor of success. He had the shamelessness Griffin respected; he was in the club. Admire the Writer’s strategy, he must have known that Griffin’s solitary appearance at the Beverly HillsHotel at ten o’clock would draw attention. Griffin started an introduction, but they were old friends. He wished they weren’t, he was jealous of them, they made each other laugh.
    â€œJoin us for a drink?” asked the director.
    â€œI have to meet someone, sorry.”
    â€œAnother time.”
    â€œI’ll call you.”
    â€œThree twenty,” said Oakley.
    â€œWhat?” said Griffin.
    â€œRoom three twenty,” he said. “I’ll be here for another week.”
    â€œParamount is paying the bill,” said Civella with a delivery meant to bring on a laugh and gracefully finish the lobby conference. It worked. Hands were shaken, and Griffin followed the hall to the Polo Lounge.
    The maître d’ nodded. “Mr. Mill,” he said, “how many?”
    â€œThere’ll be two of us, but I’m a little early.”
    â€œWould you like a booth in the back and I’ll bring your guest?”
    â€œGive me one in front.” And he pointed to a booth against the far wall. The waiter came immediately. Griffin ordered a shrimp cocktail and a Pimm’s Cup, a teenager’s idea of sophistication, he knew, but he needed something sweet. Why was he apologizing to himself? Two women at the bar returned his smile. The waiter brought his order.
    If he lost the job, what would he miss? He had a lot of his own money, but he wasn’t used to spending it, except for clothing, furniture, a few toys. Even his stereo was paid for, a gift of the studio’s record company. His expense account was almost unlimited. Every flight was first-class. Limousines brought him to airports and limousines met him. If he didn’t know the drivers, there was always a chauffeur with MR. MILL scrawled on a little cardboard sign. In New York he took over the studio’s suite at the SherryNetherland, with his jackets in the closet, shirts in a dresser. He’d flown the
Concorde
ten times. The forty-thousand-dollar car was a gift from the studio. Half his mortgage was paid by the company. An interest-free loan had covered the down payment. When he paid for a meal himself, there was a feeling of novelty, almost of petty theft. But who was he stealing from? How much of the food he’d eaten in five years had he paid for himself? Fifty dinners altogether? Lunches on Sunday? How many plane tickets had he paid for? A few. Cabo San Lucas with Bonnie Sherow. Then he had been a little in love and wanted the hours to be nonreimbursible, non-deductible. So purity had come to this, paying your own way? No. He admitted to himself that this need to pay for his own time went beyond not wanting to turn love into a write-off. It was about privacy. He’d taken no vacations for the first five years he worked at the studio, a record that was even mentioned in
Time
magazine. Well, it wasn’t strictly true, on a trip to visit a location in Morocco he stopped in Agadir for three days. He went skiing when a shoot in Colorado was closed by a