“Do you want some chow? Some bubbly? A lap dance, maybe?”
The man shook his head very, very slowly.
“That’s not why I came,” he said. “And you know it.”
I recognized the guy’s voice. I had heard it when I had eavesdropped, while locked in the basement. He was the one who’d slapped Troy’s face.
“Just give me a little bit more time.”
“You’ve had more than enough.”
“Okay, okay,” Troy said, rattled. “Let me introduce you to someone.”
To my horror, he started approaching me.
“Clarence?” he said.
I fled, walking swiftly toward the other guests. I found myself bumping into Lucas Mallomill, who was trying to show a befuddled Thor some kung fu moves. The first guy didn’t acknowledge me; the second didn’t remember.
With Troy and the thug at my back, I headed next for Alan Boilerman. He stood—shyly, I noticed—over a plate of shrimp toast. I quickly acted as if he and I had met before.
“Hey, Alan,” I said. “How’s it going?”
The director was dressed in what can only be called nerd chic—big glasses, stiff dress jacket over pressed white shirt and chinos. It was a postmodern comment on being trivial, different from the real thing. He tried to be polite.
“Do we … have we met?” he asked.
I was sweating now. “Sure, you know. Roy Milano. From the Fest.”
This seemed like an all-purpose description, and, to my surprise, it worked.
“Oh,” he said. “Sure, sure. How’s it going?”
“Just great,” I said, taking him by the shoulder and maneuvering him farther into the house. “Look … I, uh, was just wondering what you’re up to. Another quirky family comedy?”
I hoped the description wasn’t too caustic; his work was way too twee for me. Luckily, the subject of himself engrossed Boilerman, and he opened up. “No, actually. I’m going to try a stretch next.”
“Is that right? How so?” I wiped my wet brow.
“I’m going to direct The Seven Ordeals of Quelman.”
I stopped, even though I meant to keep going. “You’re kidding.”
“No. I just heard yesterday. Do you know the books? It’s going to be a real monster project, a whole series of films, starting with …”
I pretended to listen, the film plan being known to me. We had reached a dark hallway, away from the party proper. When I glanced back, I saw that Troy’s friend had been intercepted by one of the girls. She was standing very close to him, her rock-hard breasts pressed against his suit. I breathed a little easier, turning back to Alan.
“Who’s going to adapt it?” I asked, knowing full well.
“I am, actually,” Alan said, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses. “I mean, they had a writer on it. But it was, you know, awful stuff. So I told them I would only do it if I could do my own scripts. I’m going to start from scratch.”
I was dumbfounded. “Good for you.”
Thoughts were swirling around my head, none of them pleasant. If Abner was off the project—he probably didn’t even know it yet—that meant no more money would be forthcoming from him. How would I even get home?
I glanced back. Roughly, Troy’s friend shook off the attentions of the overbuilt blonde. Then he was on the move again, and coming my way.
“Well, good luck with that,” I said, quickly, to Alan.
“What? Oh, uh, thanks. So what are you—”
It would have been nice to schmooze more; Boilerman seemed relatively unaffected. But I would have to take a rain check. I was too busy trying not to get killed.
Soon, so was everyone else. I heard a gun go off.
TROY’S HOUSE GOT ANOTHER WOUND IN ITS WALL.
The bullet—real this time, I knew instinctively—rocketed into the stucco in the hall, not far from my head. Plaster flew into the air like confetti. Alan Boilerman dropped immediately to the floor, whether in a defensive measure or a faint, I didn’t know.
I looked up. I saw that the crowd in the living room was scrambling for its life, food, booze, and boobs flying. This was no Hong Kong action movie; this was the worst of reality.
Standing in the center of them, undeterred, was the guy who wanted his dough. He was pointing his gun. He wasn’t aiming at me. After all, I was in the shadows of the hall, pressed against the smoking wall. He was aiming at Troy, who was right in front of him, running in a crouch, as if the gun had begun a race.
Troy managed to rigidly round a corner, passing me and the fallen Boilerman, as a second shot peeled out. Again, the wall above me exploded. The former big shot had just managed to escape with his life.
Then I felt someone pull me by the hand.
“Come on!” he said.
