Hell no.
So Marty weighed the pluses and minuses while pretending to stop and tie his shoe.
The way he figured it, he had some power over Josh, but none over Jean-Marc. There was little Josh could do to hurt Marty, even though he, unlike Jean-Marc, was in the TV business. But Jean-Marc could do more to damage Marty’s status and influence with one unfavorable table seating or refused reservation than Josh could ever do.
So it was decided. He’d take his chances on running into Josh.
Better yet, rather than risk being seen, of being revealed, he’d take charge and seek Josh out and, by drawing attention to himself, control the situation and how he was perceived.
Yes, Marty decided, that was perfect. By not hiding, but confronting Josh, he seized the moment and shaped it, and its meaning, himself.
Besides, Josh was about his size, maybe the producer could loan Marty some fresh clothes so he wouldn’t smell, and look, like a latrine any more. Marty would still arrive in Calabasas dirty, but not nearly as bad as he was now, reeking of transient piss, rotting food, and Hawaiian Tropic, among other things.
“Are you tying your shoe,” Buck asked, “or fucking it? Let’s go.”
“I want to stop by and visit a friend. He lives around here,” Marty rose to his feet, pleased with himself and his sound reasoning. “Did you ever watch Manchine?’”
“The show about the guy who was half man, half machine?”
“Yeah. My friend Josh wrote and produced it.”
“I remember it,” Buck said. “The guy was always sticking his finger into computers, blenders, telephones, and shit to make ’em work.”
“That was his super power. He could meld mentally with any machine he touched and control it with his thoughts.”
“Big fucking deal. I can do the same thing just by using the on-and-off switch.”
Marty ignored the dig and studied the homes as they turned the corner and walked up McCadden. Most of the houses on the street were built in the late twenties and represented an eclectic mix of contrasting styles, from the turrets and balconies of French Norman architecture to the old-money formality, columns and brick of American Georgian.
Rather than detract from the stateliness of the neighborhood, inexplicably this mix only enhanced it. Such starkly contrasting styles would never be allowed where Marty lived. Architectural homogeneity was strictly enforced to maintain elegance and property values. Yet even now, with many of these homes decimated or badly damaged, the neighborhood somehow managed to keep its elegance and rarified air. Perhaps it had more to do with the impeccably trimmed hedges, unbelievably green lawns, and sparkling European cars.
The first thing Marty noticed about Josh’s house was the “For Sale” sign in the front lawn. The sign was standing straight and undamaged, the house was not. It had tipped to one side, spilling its red tile roof and several walls onto the BMW in the driveway.
Josh and Nora were lying on chaise lounges beside a small tent and a bonfire pit they’d dug into their freshly-mowed lawn. All the personal belongings they’d salvaged were scattered around them in moving boxes and bulging suitcases.
Nora’s left arm was in a blood-stained, make-shift sling and her face was a sickly pale. Marty couldn’t remember whether she was a teacher or worked in an art gallery.
Josh’s head was wrapped in a bloody gauze and his right eye was swollen shut. It also looked like he might have broken his nose. Something must have fallen on his head in the quake, but Josh seemed alert, even if he hadn’t noticed Marty and Buck standing in front of him yet.
“I’m so relieved to see the two of you are okay,” Marty said as he approached. Josh and Nora looked up at him, clearly not recognizing him. “It’s me, Martin Slack.”
They still stared at him. They seemed confused.
“Don’t feel bad if you have trouble recognizing me, I barely recognize myself,” Marty laughed awkwardly, the joviality entirely forced. “This is my friend, Buck.”
They looked through Buck as if he wasn’t there, and turned their attention back to Marty, clearly accepting who he was and that he was, indeed, standing there.
“What are you doing here, Marty?” Josh asked.
The producer didn’t seem nearly as enthused as Marty expected him to be, and it threw him.
“I was worried about you,” Marty replied.
Josh shared a look with his wife, then turned back to Marty. “When, exactly, did you start worrying?”
“I was walking by just now, and I remembered you lived here, and thought I should check up on you, make sure you’re okay.”
“Now you’re concerned,” Nora said pointedly. “How nice.”
“We’re fine, Marty,” Josh sighed. “Thanks for stopping by. Say hello to Beth for us.”
“I was hoping you could do me a small favor. I was downtown when the quake hit so I’ve got to walk home. To Calabasas. As you can see, I’ve been already been through a lot.”
“You want to borrow the car?” Nora nodded toward the driveway. “Be our guest.”
“Actually, all I really need is a fresh shirt and a clean pair of pants.” Marty would have asked for some shoes, too, but he could see Josh’s feet were smaller than his.
Josh scratched at a fleck of dried blood on his cheek. “What you’re saying, basically, is you’d like the shirt off my back.”
“Any shirt will do,” Marty forced a smile, assuming Josh was making joke. Or at least hoping he was. “I just don’t want to go home looking like this. I smell like someone pissed on me.”
“Good,” Josh leaned forward now, his face reddening with anger. “Now you know how I’ve felt every day for the last two years, you son-of-a-bitch.”
That took Marty by surprise, and Buck loved it, a big grin on his face.
“What did I ever do to you?” Marty asked Josh.
“Nothing, Marty. Absolutely nothing.”
“I thought we were friends.”
“Bullshit. I thought we were friends. But I was wrong. As soon as Manchine was canceled, I never heard from you again.”
“You know how it is,” Marty said, “you get busy. I got a lot of shows in production.”
“And did you recommend your friend Josh for any of them? Did you ever invite your friend Josh in to pitch pilots? Did you ever return a single call from your friend Josh?”
Marty didn’t know what to say because the answers to Josh’s questions were obvious. It was like challenging the existence of gravity. Josh was challenging the natural laws of the television business.
It wasn’t personal. But once a show is canceled, the talent on it are tainted with failure, at least for a while. Marty would look foolish arguing that the producer of a flop show last year was the perfect guy to run a new show this season. Who’s going to get excited about that? As far as returning calls and having lunch goes, Marty’s obligation was to the guys with shows on-the-air. That meant that people without shows got put off indefinitely. Friendship didn’t figure in to it.
But it had been a long time since Josh took an unwanted hiatus. Maybe he’d forgotten what it was like.
“You know how it is,” Marty said, as sympathetically as he could. “You’d just come off a couple years on a marginally-rated show. We needed a breather. I’m sure you did, too. But you never stopped being my friend.”
“Two years, Marty. That’s how long I haven’t worked. Why do you think I’m selling my house? In another month, I would have been living in this tent anyway. Thanks to you. And now you want the shirt off my back, too?”
“It’s not me you’re mad at,” Marty said, “it’s the business.”
“We used to talk on the phone every day. We ate lunch together. You’ve been to my home. We’ve gone to concerts together. And as soon as my show is canceled, you don’t want to hear from me any more. That’s not the business, Marty. That’s you.”
“Boo-fucking-hoo,” Buck snorted. “What kind of pussy are you? Your show sucked, so you suck. End of story.” Buck elbowed Marty hard in the side. “Can we fucking go now?”