The Walk (16 page)

Those class differences were irrelevant now. Both sides of the street here were in ruins, the rich and the poor, identically swathed in blood and despair, huddled miserably together on the streets, the front lawns, and the parking lots, tending their wounds and waiting for the ground to stop shaking.

Over the last hour, several small aftershocks rippled through the ground, reminding Marty and everyone else the earth wasn’t finished with them yet, widening cracks, toppling lopsided homes and slanted buildings, breaking what little glass hadn’t broken yet.

It had been over twenty-four hours since the Big One, and in that time, Marty didn’t feel he’d gone very far in distance and yet, at the same time, knew he’d traveled a long way from where he’d been before. It wasn’t only his reflection in the shattered mirror that made him think that.

For one thing, Marty realized he was a stronger, more capable man than he ever thought he was. He’d rescued a child, survived a flood, and waded through an unspeakable landscape of death. He never would have imagined he could do one of those things, let alone all three. And, at the same time, Marty was ashamed to find depths of weakness and cowardice within himself he never suspected were there. He did nothing for Molly, leaving her to die, and would have done the same for Franklin, if Buck hadn’t forced him into pulling off a rescue. Somehow, the cowardice wasn’t nearly as unexpected as the heroism and endurance.

As much as Marty disliked Buck, he couldn’t deny that somehow this one-dimensional TV character, this caveman in a polyester suit, had brought out the best in him even while trying to get him killed. Yet all Marty knew about Buck was that he was a bounty hunter, drove a Mercury Montego, lived alone with a pit-bull named Thor, decorated his bathroom with cocktail napkins, and disliked women with slanty breasts.

“Tell me something, Buck. Who are you?”

The question didn’t throw Buck at all, he answered immediately, without hesitation: “Two hundred and twenty pounds of exquisite manhood, loved and worshipped by women, feared and respected by men, my towering intellect matched only by my gigantic cock. One look at me will tell you all of that.”

“What do you get if you dig deeper?”

“You get to experience it, which is different for women than it is for men.” Obviously, Buck had given this some thought. Perhaps now Marty would actually learn something.

“For a woman, it means no bullshit,” Buck explained. “I give them exactly what they want, what a man was put here to give them: good food, a solid fuck, and protection from harm. Until I get bored and find myself another woman. But I don’t give them any bullshit. When I’m done with a woman, she knows it and I walk away. They respect that, even if it hurts, which is why any woman I’ve left will always take me back to bed again. That, and the fact I’ve got a huge dick.

“Now for a guy, it depends whether you’re friend or foe. To a friend, I’m a fellow warrior, someone you know will fight alongside you to the death. A brother in blood, through heaven or hell. What’s mine is yours, and that includes my woman. To a foe, I’m pure, primal terror. I’m the big, dark, merciless motherfucker from hell who will catch you, slit you wide open, and feast on your steaming guts.”

“Steaming guts.” Marty shook his head.

“That’s what I said.”

“That’s not a description of a real person, that’s a comic book character.”

“I’m standing here, aren’t I?”

“That’s not who you are, what you just told me is an idiotic soldier-of-fortune fantasy shared by legions of minimum wage, illiterate rednecks who regret being born too late to fight in Vietnam and think Chuck Norris is a terrific actor. It’s not who you are.”

“What the fuck do you know? You’re some professional bullshit artist who spends his days watching other bullshit artists pretend to be other fucking people living other fucking lives, and you think you can tell them how to do it better because you’re so goddamn good at living a fantasy yourself.”

“Is that how you see me?”

“Isn’t that how you see yourself?”

As a matter of fact, it was. “No,” Marty replied.

Buck shrugged. “Okay, then who the fuck are you?”

“I’m just an average guy.”

“That’s it?”

“I left out the part about having a gigantic cock and eating my enemy’s steaming guts, but other than that, yeah, that’s it.”

“How would you know if you’re an average guy? What the hell is that? It’s meaningless bullshit. C’mon, who the fuck are you?”

“I’m a writer. I’m a husband. I’m a decent man.”

“Uh-huh,” Buck was silent for a moment, mulling something over as they walked. “So, what have you written?”

Marty looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. “Some scripts, some novels.”

“Any of ’em shot or published?”

“Not yet.”

“Then you aren’t a fucking writer,” Buck said. “So, how’s your marriage?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean does your wife love you? Is she happy? Is she getting what she wants out of life by being with you? Are you fulfilling all your requirements as a man?”

Marty thought about his conversation with Beth in the kitchen yesterday morning. He thought about his infertility. He thought about the awkwardness, the buried resentments, and the pain. “It’s not that easy. You can love someone and still have times where—”

“You’re a lousy husband,” Buck interrupted. “Let’s move on to the decency part. What was your first instinct when that black kid on the overpass needed help?”

Marty didn’t answer.

“So you’re not a writer, not a husband, and not a decent guy,” Buck said. “We’re back where we started, aren’t we, Marty? Who the fuck are you? You obviously aren’t the guy you think you are. So, you tell me which one of us is full of shit.”

Buck was right. If Marty expected an honest answer from Buck, he had to give one himself.

“Okay, Buck. Fair enough. I’ll start again. I’m an average guy in that I have dreams that aren’t fulfilled, a marriage that isn’t perfect, and am often more of a disappointment to myself than I am to others. I’m not completely loyal or honest and I don’t pretend to be the perfect friend or lover. I can be selfish, manipulative, and cruel, just like everybody else. But like most guys, I try to rise above my shortcomings, or at least convince myself that I do, so that most days I can think of myself as a decent person.”

“Holy shit,” Buck said. “That’s good.”

Marty gave him a nod. “Your turn.”

Buck took a deep breath, thought for a moment, then said: “Maybe I’m a bounty hunter, and spend all my time chasing people, because I’m on the run myself. Afraid of commitment, love, actually investing myself in anything. It’s why I come across so big and mean, so people will be scared off and I won’t have to deal with them on any sort of emotional level. Bottom line, I’m terrified of intimacy.”

Marty looked at Buck, truly astonished. There was a human being somewhere inside Buck after all, and a surprisingly perceptive one at that.

“You like it?” Buck asked.

“I may have misjudged you, Buck.”

“Now all the things I’ve done that piss you off don’t seem quite so bad, maybe even redeemable.”

Redeemable?
Since when did Buck use words like that?

“You see a side of me that’s thoughtful, sensitive, what you might call likeable,” Buck said. “Am I right?”

Marty stopped walking.
Redeemable? Likeable?
Buck wasn’t talking about himself. He was talking about a
character
.

“Everything you just said about yourself was pure bullshit, wasn’t it?” Marty said. “You don’t believe a word of it.”

“Why do I have to believe that whiny, self-serving horseshit if you buy it and it works for the character?”

“What character?”

“My character, asshole. The hero of the fucking series. By the way, you were right, you do give great notes.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That speech you just made, the ‘I’m an average guy’ thing, fucking brilliant. The way you gave yourself notes on yourself, that was inspiring shit. I saw right then what you were looking for, so I reworked everything.”

“Reworked what?”

“The character, the whole fucking series. I made it richer, right off the top of my head.”

This is unreal, Marty thought. The hands-down winner for the nightmare pitch of all time. “Why does every conversation we have always end up being about you and a TV series? I’m not interested in doing a show about you. I never was and I never will be. Got it?
Comprendo
? Can we fucking move on?”

“You asked me, remember? You’re the one who started the fucking conversation.”

“I didn’t ask you to pitch me a series about yourself.”

“Then what were you asking me about?”

“You, Buck. I wanted to know about you.”

“Why the fuck would you want to know that?”

“You’re right,” Marty replied. “My mistake.”

Marty was about to start walking again when he saw a man in a white chef’s apron sweeping broken glass and stucco outside a small, ivy-covered restaurant, the vines all that was holding the building together.

“Oh, shit,” Marty whispered.

Buck followed his gaze. “What?”

“That’s Jean-Marc Lofficier, the famous chef. He owns La Guerre, the restaurant over there. I can’t believe I nearly walked right by it.”

“You hungry already?”

“No. I can’t let him see me like this. Let’s go south one block, we can come back to Melrose later.”

Buck stared at Marty, incredulous. “You’re afraid of a cook? What’s he gonna do, char your fucking cheeseburger?”

“You don’t understand. That is one of the top five power restaurants in this city. It’s where everybody at Paramount does lunch. If Jean-Marc sees me like this, I may never get a table there again.”

“So fuck him, eat somewhere else. Look, there’s a spaghetti place across the street.”

“Someday, Buck, this mess is going to be cleaned up and we’re all going to have to go back to work. As stupid as it sounds, in my business where you eat and where you sit when you eat is important. If Jean-Marc sees me like this, looking like I pissed my pants and swam through a cesspool, that’s all he’ll ever see anytime he hears my name. I’ll never get a reservation. And if I can’t get a table at La Guerre, I can’t do business.”

Buck looked back at Lofficier, who was bending over to hold his dustpan as he swept the trash into it.

“No problem,” Buck said. “I’ll introduce his face to my knee a few times and we can move on.”

Marty grabbed Buck just as the bounty hunter was starting towards the chef. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think a beating is necessary.”

“If the guy is lying on the ground, choking on his teeth, he won’t notice you walking by. Even if he does see you, so what? He’ll look as bad as you, maybe worse.”

“Let’s just go down one street.”

Buck reluctantly followed Marty into the fashionable, residential neighborhood south of Melrose.

“Philosophically,” Buck said, “I’ve got a big fucking problem running from anybody.”

“You’re not, I am. And it’s not exactly running. It’s avoiding.”

“I got a big fucking problem avoiding anybody.”

They were walking past the entry-level residences of moneyed Hancock Park when Marty began to wonder if this was such a wise move. The houses on the tree-lined, leafy street were miniaturized versions of the grandiose estates several blocks south. These were homes for the almost-millionaires, the ones with teething kids, leased German cars, and nightmares about turning forty. This was where a lot of studio executives, producers, and directors lived.

What if one of them saw him? Every time he gave them a note, they would remember how he smelled today and snicker maliciously.

So Marty kept his eyes on the ground, just in case someone he knew was among the people seeking shelter in their Ranger Rovers or gathered on their perfectly manicured lawns with their requisite golden retrievers, eating lunch out of Laura Ashley picnic baskets they bought for evening concerts at the Hollywood Bowl.

Thinking of the Bowl reminded Marty that he did know someone who lived here, a friend in fact. He looked up in time to realize that, as fate would have it, he was just a few doors away from writer/producer Josh Redden’s place.

Josh lived on McCadden in one of those little Spanish houses with the red tile roofs and white plaster walls. Marty had been there two years ago for party celebrating the second season premiere of
Manchine
. A short time after that, Marty and Beth were invited to the Hollywood Bowl with Josh and his wife, who had a box there. They sat through a couple hours of classical music, dining on Wolfgang Puck frozen pizzas and airplane wine.

Marty could turn around and run from Josh, but then he’d have to go back up to Melrose and take his chances with Jean-Marc.

There was also another issue. Did he really want to tell Buck they had to flee from somebody else?

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
?’”