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Authors: Bharati Mukherjee
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collagen workout. “The city permit—”
“You don’t have a permit from me,” I interrupted.
“That’s true”—the woman backed away from me—“very true.” She signaled the tow truck I hadn’t noticed before, because it was parked around the corner. “Look, I don’t make the rules. I’m not the bad guy here.”
My fists clenched up on their own. “Well, I do! I make the rules! So beat it, Ms. Loc!”
The woman looked down at her shoes. They were Mary Janes in purple suede. I began to enjoy myself. PA ponders power play versus penitence . I could still miss Frankie at the strangest times.
“Look, could you like move your car out of here for now, and maybe, like take it up with the mayor or something?” She sent an anxious glance to where Stoop Man was lecturing a longhaired man. “Ham?” she spoke into her walkie-talkie.
The longhaired man raised a walkie-talkie to his lips. “I just learned about inner-city problems in other solar systems. This dude’s a perfect extra. See if you can get me Sarah. Or any of the casting munchkins.”
“Ham,” the locations PA pleaded, “can you spare a minute? We have a situation.”
The man with the gray hair to his shoulders had to be in production. Some sort of desk job in the entertainment business, anyway. He wasn’t crew, and he wasn’t talent. I Sherlocked that from his clothes: a dress shirt and tuxedo jacket, white slacks, white loafers, pale panama hat on an oversized head. The white slacks had double pleats, the loafers gilt buckles that didn’t glint in the sun. Pretty cool himself. Not too many guys can wear white shoes and white slacks with wit or style. The shirt was authentic Jazz Age twenties, not shopping-mall knockoff. I’d worked at the expensive Love at Second Site too many summers in Saratoga not to know vintage from junk. Smooth, I decided.
Ham maneuvered Stoop Man behind the police lines, then ambled to where I was giving his assistant a hard time, all the while nodding to gawkers and shaking hands. Money changing hands as Ham advanced. He didn’t doff his panama, but he did scoop up my left hand in both his and kiss the inside of my wrist.
“Hi, honey, I’m Ham.” He hung on to my hand, and gave me a deep, I-really-care-about-you look. “What’s the problem? How can I help?”
“For starters, get this dodo out of my face.”
Ham did, with an “I’ll take care of this, Mimi, but have Sam call my office and check for messages; I hope Arturo made his flight okay.”
“Good luck,” the PA said over her shoulder.
Ham glanced at Pammy Whammy. She was at the crafts-service table, flirting with a man wearing some sort of utility belt. The man was more interested in her than in the Danish in his hand.
“You looking to break into movies like everyone else?” Ham asked. “You want it, you got it. The usual rate. Fifty bucks cash for the day.”
“So that’s how you guys take care of problems?”
“That’s the rate,” Ham repeated. “Nonunion nonfeatured extra.” He leaned towards me. I felt my back press against the Corolla’s door. Dawn had started out foggy, and the car was more soaked than dewy. “Are we working it out?”
I sized up my advantage. “What is this shit?” I snapped. “Ethnic cleansing?”
“That’s pretty heavy, honey.”
“Well, here’s a counteroffer.” I slipped my hand out of his, reached in through the driver’s side window and pressed the horn and kept pressing it and let up only when he pleaded, “Okay, LA tactics always win. So how much are we talking? Are you the community rep or just acting freelance?”
I tried to think big. “A grand,” I blurted. “In cash. No deductions.”
Ham’s face relaxed. “You got it.” He laughed.
I cursed myself for thinking small-time Hudson Valley.
Ham consolidated his win. “That’s you plural. You as spokesperson of, and disburser for …”
I was a counterfeit wheeler-dealer. Ham was the genuine thing.
“What’s your
“You don’t have a permit from me,” I interrupted.
“That’s true”—the woman backed away from me—“very true.” She signaled the tow truck I hadn’t noticed before, because it was parked around the corner. “Look, I don’t make the rules. I’m not the bad guy here.”
My fists clenched up on their own. “Well, I do! I make the rules! So beat it, Ms. Loc!”
The woman looked down at her shoes. They were Mary Janes in purple suede. I began to enjoy myself. PA ponders power play versus penitence . I could still miss Frankie at the strangest times.
“Look, could you like move your car out of here for now, and maybe, like take it up with the mayor or something?” She sent an anxious glance to where Stoop Man was lecturing a longhaired man. “Ham?” she spoke into her walkie-talkie.
The longhaired man raised a walkie-talkie to his lips. “I just learned about inner-city problems in other solar systems. This dude’s a perfect extra. See if you can get me Sarah. Or any of the casting munchkins.”
“Ham,” the locations PA pleaded, “can you spare a minute? We have a situation.”
The man with the gray hair to his shoulders had to be in production. Some sort of desk job in the entertainment business, anyway. He wasn’t crew, and he wasn’t talent. I Sherlocked that from his clothes: a dress shirt and tuxedo jacket, white slacks, white loafers, pale panama hat on an oversized head. The white slacks had double pleats, the loafers gilt buckles that didn’t glint in the sun. Pretty cool himself. Not too many guys can wear white shoes and white slacks with wit or style. The shirt was authentic Jazz Age twenties, not shopping-mall knockoff. I’d worked at the expensive Love at Second Site too many summers in Saratoga not to know vintage from junk. Smooth, I decided.
Ham maneuvered Stoop Man behind the police lines, then ambled to where I was giving his assistant a hard time, all the while nodding to gawkers and shaking hands. Money changing hands as Ham advanced. He didn’t doff his panama, but he did scoop up my left hand in both his and kiss the inside of my wrist.
“Hi, honey, I’m Ham.” He hung on to my hand, and gave me a deep, I-really-care-about-you look. “What’s the problem? How can I help?”
“For starters, get this dodo out of my face.”
Ham did, with an “I’ll take care of this, Mimi, but have Sam call my office and check for messages; I hope Arturo made his flight okay.”
“Good luck,” the PA said over her shoulder.
Ham glanced at Pammy Whammy. She was at the crafts-service table, flirting with a man wearing some sort of utility belt. The man was more interested in her than in the Danish in his hand.
“You looking to break into movies like everyone else?” Ham asked. “You want it, you got it. The usual rate. Fifty bucks cash for the day.”
“So that’s how you guys take care of problems?”
“That’s the rate,” Ham repeated. “Nonunion nonfeatured extra.” He leaned towards me. I felt my back press against the Corolla’s door. Dawn had started out foggy, and the car was more soaked than dewy. “Are we working it out?”
I sized up my advantage. “What is this shit?” I snapped. “Ethnic cleansing?”
“That’s pretty heavy, honey.”
“Well, here’s a counteroffer.” I slipped my hand out of his, reached in through the driver’s side window and pressed the horn and kept pressing it and let up only when he pleaded, “Okay, LA tactics always win. So how much are we talking? Are you the community rep or just acting freelance?”
I tried to think big. “A grand,” I blurted. “In cash. No deductions.”
Ham’s face relaxed. “You got it.” He laughed.
I cursed myself for thinking small-time Hudson Valley.
Ham consolidated his win. “That’s you plural. You as spokesperson of, and disburser for …”
I was a counterfeit wheeler-dealer. Ham was the genuine thing.
“What’s your
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