I spin his Rolodex and land on Heigl, Katherine. I take her card and turn it over and I see that he approached her at Little Dom’s, a restaurant in Los Feliz. He told her that she had some fans getting aggressive out front and that she would be wiser to go out the back. He says she was pretty, grateful, took a selfie with me, said she’ll follow me on Instagram. I pick up the mic. “So, does Katherine Heigl follow you on Instagram?”
“Put that down.” Fincher stares at the Rolodex. His eyes are a ride in a theme park, two beady little balls to hell. “That’s police business.”
“Really?” I ask. “Because unless there’s a special division dedicated exclusively to stopping imaginary celebrity crimes, I’d say this feels more like personal stuff to me.”
“You have no right to look at that.” I laugh. He doesn’t. “I have eyes on a lot of people. That’s not my only file.”
“I’m sure,” I say. “Anyway, did she follow you on Instagram?”
“She was very nice.” He sidesteps. “Listen, you sick fuck, this is a big mistake.”
“Robin,” I say. “Do you know you could go to jail for this?”
“Put it down.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I ask. “Why would you ever bring this on a plane?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It is now,” I say. “As a concerned citizen, I have every right to look out for my fellow countrymen. This is a breach.”
“Tell me what you want,” he pleads. “Just put it down and tell me what you want.”
“What do I want?”
“Anything,” he says. “This is crazy. You gotta let me out of here.”
That’s not happening and he should realize that and I ignore him and I spin through his Rolodex and thank God that I am me, that I didn’t get sick like this, that I don’t covet imaginary friends and pry into places where I don’t belong. What a dreadful existence, to be the man in possession of this Rolodex.
“Fincher,” I say. “You do realize that these things are supposed to have the names and numbers of people who know you too?”
“Fuck you.”
I shake my head. They always get like that when you reach the truth. The way a fish nips at the bait after circling. Robin is breaking. Biting. He is boiling down to his fuck you self. This is his mug of urine, his mistake, and his is infinitely worse than mine. His mug of piss may not contain his DNA, but it reveals so much more, his demented ego, his emotional core. He’s no different from a thirteen-year-old girl writing a letter to Justin Timberlake, thinking he might write back. Fincher’s Rolodex is a motherfucking hope chest.
“Robin,” I say. “Was Eddie Murphy making a big mistake when he didn’t think it was funny that you pulled him over for having a banana in his tailpipe.”
Robin turns red. “Stop it.”
I shake my head. “I just think Beverly Hills Cop was a long time ago and he’s probably a busy guy, you know? He probably had somewhere he had to be. Do you think it was a great choice as an aspiring actor? Did you think he would find you funny?”
“Stop it,” he says. He pumps his fists and you can tell he’s used to carrying a weapon.
“You know you’re supposed to be looking for Delilah,” I remind him. “You just swore to me that you were gonna find her, but you, motherfucker, you took off to Cabo three days later. And we both know you only tracked me down because I was on a set.” I laugh. “You actually had me scared a little. Your whole bad cop demeanor and the way you were sniffing around about me, threatening me, stealing my headphones.”
“As if you didn’t steal them first,” he says, eyes blazing.
“Of course I did,” I reveal. And he smirks, as if he figured something out, as if he won. “But what you don’t realize is that I stole them from Henderson when I killed him.”
Fincher starts to turn purple. “You sick fuck.”
I sigh. “Says the man who travels with a Rolodex of celebrities’ addresses. Do you know what would happen if this got into the wrong hands? I mean, not that you’ll be around to deal with the consequences.”
He’s on his feet now, and he throws the ice bucket at the glass. He throws one water bottle, then the other. He falls to his knees and he’s not crying because I’m going to kill him. Oh, sure, you assume that because he’s locked in a cage and about to die—but Robin Fincher is crying because all he ever wanted was for this Rolodex to be his, truly. He wanted to be buddies with these people. He wanted Katherine Heigl to follow him on Instagram—he even noted with an asterisk on the back, friends call her Katie—and he’s crying because none of that is going to happen.
He will never be friends with Katie Heigl. And in spite of all the red carpet events he crashed with his uniform—you should see this picture of him at an Oblivion event where he’s with Tom Cruise and the security guards in back look like they’re gonna fucking kill him—well, the point is, Fincher met a lot of people. But that was it. You can’t have a conversation with an autograph and you can’t go out to lunch with a group selfie and no matter how grateful Julia Roberts is that you alerted her to some problems with the elevator in the Chateau—bullshit, bullshit—she is only going to close the door and lock it because she doesn’t fucking know you, Robin Fincher.
Now he wants me to leave him alone. But we’re not done yet. “Oh come on,” I say. “This Rolodex is thick. I mean, we haven’t even gotten to Efron, Zac.”
“Stop it,” he says. “I mean it.”
“No,” I say. “We’re gonna get to the bottom of some of these choices. Same way I acknowledged my bad choice when I crossed the street. Yes, I have authority issues. I concede that I should have waited for the walk signal, Robin. I can be a punk. I am a little fucking New York that way and you were right and I accepted my responsibility.”
He cries. “Please let me go, please, please.”
I flip over Crawford, Cindy. He punches the glass. “Stop it!”
“Wow,” I say. “You really think she was flirting with you? Because I don’t know, Robin. I’m gonna guess that she was trying to get out of a ticket.”
“Stop it.”
“That’s what is so great about your stories,” I tell him. “You don’t even understand who you are, Robin. You’re a police officer.”
“Fuck you.”
“An officer of the law.”
“Fuck you.”
“These people are just like me,” I say, and I point to his Rolodex. “All of us, we’re just trying to get out of a ticket. Don’t you get that?”
He spits. I point to him. “You cop,” I say. I point at myself. “Me citizen.” I do it again, repeating that Tom Cruise is like me, a citizen, and that Jennifer Aniston is like me, a citizen. He screams and shakes like a monkey and I won’t let up. “No, no, no,” I say. “You chose to be a cop and you don’t get to be a cop slash actor because you can’t be a cop and an actor and deep down you know this or you would have gone for it, Robin. You would have taken your classes and waited tables and dedicated your life to your dream, but no. You knew he didn’t have it. And this is life, you fucking shithead. You don’t get to be anything slash anything.”
“You don’t know,” he whimpers. “That Chinese guy, the one from The Hangover, he was a doctor before he got into the business.”
I look at this sad man, comparing himself to a brilliant comedic actor. The pure absence of self-awareness is enough to kill me. “Fincher,” I say. “Ken Jeong is talented. You’re not.”