Read Online I’m Losing You by Bruce Wagner - Free Book Online

importers and the like. Rolls-Royces, Hum-Vees and Range Rovers threaded the posh alley-like streets. People drove around in golf carts, as in studio days of yore.
    A red ambulance light flashing at the Stage Six door meant they were shooting inside. Simon waited with a small group. When the light went off, they entered the cavernous darkness through gunmetal doors. A girl with a walkie intercepted him.
    â€œMay I help you?”
    â€œI’m here to see Hassan.”
    The girl was listening to voices in her headphones. She said a few words to the walkie that referred to some humdrum crisis.
    â€œYou are—”
    â€œSimon Krohn. Hassan’s a family friend.”
    She held the walkie to her mouth, waiting for an audio runway to clear. Finally, she abandoned her efforts and waved him in.
    The bridge of the U.S.S.
Demeter
rose before him like the flagship of an exterminating angel. The legendary players were frozen in grandeur between takes, a tableau vivant for Simon’s delectation. There was Captain Trent Wildwood, with his shock of blond hair and vermilion tunic; the tapir-like Commander Stroth, clacking fingertips poised at ellipsoid console; Lt. Livingston T. Cloud, witty diplomat in residence, a hundred-year-old being encased within the body of a pre-adolescent boy. Someone yelled
Take five!
and the crew scurried while the actors exhaled, awakening somnambulists.
    Simon rounded the set. Before him stretched an aboriginal landscape of lava rock and sand that he recognized as the Fellcrum Outback, sacred burial- and battleground of Vorbalidian gladiators. Grips raised giant blue screens on its periphery. The budding teleplaywright was about to ask directions to Hassan’s dressing room when he saw the imposing figure of the Chief Navigator heading toward him. His face wore the characteristic calcium plating of the Vorbalid race, a dignified mosaic of features that made him resemble a cubist prelate. Mr. DeVore smoked a long thin cigarette and seemed oblivious; he had the judicious, wistful mien of an actor making serious money, at last.
    â€œHassan?” The shaled head swiveled. “It’s Simon—Krohn.”
    The Vorbalid brooded and blinked, cracking a smile. “Well, hello!”
    â€œI hope you don’t mind my dropping by.”
    â€œWell—I’m not sure!”
    The smile became a froggy grimace. The actor began to loudly hum, as if preparing for song.
    â€œScott Sagabond is a friend.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œScott Sagabond, one of the producers.”
    â€œHe’s not with the show. Left last year.”
    â€œOkay, no estoy es problemo. He was a friend—of my mother’s too. I had an idea for a script, a long time ago, and when I met you the other day, things fell quickly into place.”
    â€œYes, they did, didn’t they! I can see that.”
    â€œSince my story mostly revolves around you, I wanted to get your input.”
    â€œRevolves around me?”
    The girl with the walkie came and stood a few feet away, listening to her headphones. She was waiting for a cue to usher in Mr. DeVore; head slightly atilt, her eyes had the dull, frank look of someone making potty.
    â€œPerhaps,” said the thespian navigator, “we can talk about this some other time.”
    â€œOh sure! I can come to the house. I saw it in
In Style
, by the way—your place in Encino? I
love
the grotto your wife designed. She’s a very talented lady!”
    The girl stepped forward. “Hassan, they’re ready for you.”
    â€œKaren, this is Simon Krohn.
Actually
, he’s my psychiatrist’s son.” The actor sneezed violently but Simon realized it wasn’t a sneeze at all, but a strangled guffaw. Karen grinned, absorbed in finding a free channel.
    â€œWhy don’t you send the précis to my agent?”
    â€œBut I have a copy with me.”
    â€œBetter to send it—Donny Ribkin at ICM.” The Vorbalid was