The Walk (17 page)

“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?”

“Yeah,” Marty said, then turned to Josh. “I’m sorry things haven’t worked out for you.”

“No you’re not,” Josh settled back into his chaise lounge. “Because every writer who fails makes you feel better about being a failure yourself.”

It was exactly that kind of on-the-nose, preachy dialogue that made Josh’s writing so flat. Now Marty felt justified not returning his calls. That, and the fact that what Josh said was absolutely true.

“See you around,” Marty walked away.

They were mid-way up the block, nearly back to Melrose, when Buck spoke up.

“So that loser was one of your fucking friends.”

“Yep,” Marty replied.

“What the hell are your enemies like?”

Marty was beginning to wonder if there was really any difference.

11
:12 a.m. Wednesday

West of La Brea, Melrose became the self-consciously funky fashion center of Los Angeles before morphing, just as self-consciously, into the high-end, home decorating district as the avenue crossed San Vicente.

Marty and Buck were in the heart of the funky stretch, where stores with names like Wasteland, Armageddon, No Problem, Devastation, and Redemption competed in Marty’s mind as the Most Tragically Symbolic.

But the greatest accomplishment of these fashion-sellers wasn’t their prescience at picking business names but their skillful repackaging of thrift store hand-me-downs and garage sale castoffs. They discovered you could slap the word vintage on a ratty t-shirt, a rusted refrigerator, a dented Pontiac, or an old pair of reading glasses and suddenly it wasn’t an out-dated, beat-up, broken piece of crap; it was stylish. It was hot. It was cutting edge. Vintage clothes, vintage furniture, vintage records, vintage jewelry, vintage cars, even vintage food, in the guise of a fifties burger stand, could all be found here.

Vintage stuff wasn’t all that was hot on Melrose. Marty was surprised to see that an upscale porn emporium, selling ointments, videos, vibrators, chains, condoms, handcuffs, inflatable women, and anything else that might come handy in the bedroom, was doing a brisk business.

Obviously, no earthquake kit would be complete without a couple dildos.

Buck stopped to look at two mannequins, still standing in the shattered window of a clothing store that once offered “Goth Babe ensembles” and “butt pirate duds.” The female mannequin was dressed in an Edwardian dress with a seatbelt corset. The male mannequin wore a crushed velvet pirate shirt and leopard-print tuxedo jacket.

“What kind of fucking freak wears that shit?” Buck asked.

But Marty was more interested in the store next door, which sold old jeans, old shirts, and new Doc Martens—heavy, no-bullshit shoes that would be perfect for a post-quake journey over buckled asphalt. And a clean shirt, no matter how many people had worn it before, looked pretty good to him right now, too.

Marty stepped through the broken window into the store, wading through the piles of clothes on the floor.

“What are you looking for?” Buck asked.

“Some clean clothes and a new pair of shoes. See if you can find a size twelve.”

Buck drew his gun. “The hell I will.”

Marty looked at him wearily. “What are you going to do, shoot me again?”

“It’s what I do to looters.”

“I’m not going to steal anything. I’ll pay for it,” Marty turned his back on Buck and sorted through some shirts, looking for a large. This was the third time Buck had pointed a gun at him and the impact had worn off. “I’ll leave the money by the register with the price tags of whatever I take.”

“You’re stopping to go fucking shopping? What the fuck is the matter with you? I thought you were in a hurry to get home.”

“I am, but my feet are covered in blisters, my shoes are shredded. I need new shoes if I’m gonna make it. And look at me. What do you think my wife is going to say when she sees me like this?”

“She won’t give a shit how you look, she’ll be glad you’re alive—or the bitch can fuck herself and we end this long walk right now.”

“Fine, forget the clothes. But I need the shoes,” Marty spotted something on the floor. “And socks.”

Marty snatched up the socks, set a fallen chair straight, and sat down, yanking off his shoes. He could feel Buck’s anger without even looking at him. “It’s not about comfort, Buck. It’s about necessity.”

“Yeah, right.”

Marty’s socks peeled off his feet like a layer of dead skin. His feet were red and swollen, covered with burst blisters and festering new ones.

Buck picked up a pair of Doc Martens and tossed them at Marty’s feet. “A hundred bucks, cash.”

“I got the money.” Marty carefully put on the fresh pair of socks, but pulling the fabric over his tender skin stung anyway. He slipped on the shoes and tied up the laces.

Marty stood up and walked a few steps. His feet were sore, but this was an improvement. The shoes were stiff, but in a good way. It was like having his feet encased in concrete. He could walk over anything now.

“You ought to try a pair, Buck.”

He turned to Buck, and that’s when he saw the reflection in the cracked mirror behind the bounty hunter, the reflection of a orange-haired guy stepping out of the back room, cradling a sawed-off shotgun.

Marty whirled around and discovered that having two barrels aimed at him instead of one definitely had an impact—especially when they were held in the shaky hands of a strung-out guy with a face intentionally skewered with a dozen drill bits.

“Hi,” Marty said, his voice cracking. “Nice store you have here. It is your store, right?”

But the guy wasn’t looking at him, he was staring over Marty’s shoulder. Marty knew then, without even looking behind him, that Buck was aiming his gun, too, and that Marty was screwed front and back.

It was a scene out of a Hong Kong movie, repeated in a thousand inferior American homages, remakes, and rip-offs. The stand-off. Two men, standing eye-to-eye, gun-to-gun, the ultimate, obligatory showdown. Only there wasn’t supposed to be an unarmed man standing between them. A woman maybe, preferably the buxom love interest of the hero, but not some terrified network executive quivering in his new pair of Doc Martens.

It was a delicate situation, and whatever Marty said next could very well mean life and death for all three of them. And Marty didn’t want to die over a pair of shoes, so he would have to choose his words carefully.

Unfortunately, Buck spoke first.

“Hey, Ugly, seeing as how you’re so into body piercing, you’d probably enjoy having a couple bullets shot into your face. So, if you don’t drop the shotgun in three seconds, I’ll do you a big favor and start shooting.”

“Wait,” Marty said. “No shooting. Okay? Everybody just relax. This is just a misunderstanding.”

“You’re wearing my merchandise, maggot, that’s my understanding,” the guy with the shotgun lisped. It wasn’t easy speaking clearly with drill bits in his tongue and lips, and he wasn’t trying very hard.

“I was going to pay,” Marty tipped his head towards Buck. “Ask him.”

“One,” Buck said.

“Forget how he looks, Buck, he agrees with you,” Marty yelled, now more afraid of Buck than the guy with the shotgun, who’s arms were shaking even more. “He’s only protecting what’s his.”

“Two …”

“Buck, no!”

“Three.” Buck was about to shoot, when a woman’s voice distracted him.

“If you want to spill blood, good for you,” she said firmly, “Just don’t waste it in here.”

She was standing in the doorway to the street, wearing a Red Cross windbreaker and cap, her long, blond hair tied into a pony tail, her eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses. Her hands were on her hips, her stance radiating her disapproval and disgust with the three of them.