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Authors: Ian R. MacLeod
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meetings, do the pitches, suck up to the executives. Whatever. And not just for this feelie. Not if the stuff’s as good as Wake Up and Dream is. The Dan who does the writing could keep himself as far out of the way as he wanted from all the shit that rains down in this town. And, if they ever did find out that there were two Dans, the studios wouldn’t care anyway. Not, and pardon my French, the tiniest fuck. Not if the writing’s successful. I mean, who the hell’s losing out? More likely, they’d want to make a new feelie out of the whole scam.”
“You’re not quite the hard-bitten cynic you like to think you are. You’re worse. You’re just an outright romantic, aren’t you?”
“You got me there.” He grinned back at her and raised his glass. “So? What do you think?”
“I think we should order. You’re hungry, aren’t you? I sure am.”
Clark, who liked his food plain even at a joint like this, settled for steak and fries with a brandy sauce. She ordered some kind of fish that still had its head on when it arrived. Once the waiter had gone away, he tried probing some more.
“You know what I still don’t understand? How you found me. Sure, I advertise, but it’s mostly word of mouth. The normal business I do, anyway. Then you said something about hiring some kind of private dick to find me. I know a lot of those guys. And the way that letter arrived, and all the stuff you somehow found out about me. It requires certain skills. So I was wondering…”
“You’re right. I did hire someone. But the whole deal was that they’re discreet.”
“You’re not going to say?”
“Would you want me to go around talking to everyone about what you’ve been up to?” “No, but—”
“Exactly. But I did find out some things about you, as you say. Cuttings, mainly. Nothing but a name, and a face. But still, I’m curious. I mean, I don’t remember any of the silents and talkies you were in, and doubt if many people do. But you really were close, weren’t you? You nearly made it. So—what was it? What happened? You can’t just tell me it was just those teeth and the ears. If they bothered you that much, you’d have had them fixed.”
Now she was probing, and in directions he didn’t want to go—especially not after seeing Peg in that feelie and all the memories that had been raked up since. So he ordered some more Champagne and told April Lamotte instead about what had got him into acting in the first place, and about what it was like to grow up in a down-at-heel boomtown like Hopedale, Pennsylvania (might as well put hope in the name, the locals said, because you wouldn’t find it anywhere else). Times when he was plain old Billy Gable, and the best he could have hoped for out of life was to follow his dad into the oil wildcatting trade or pull the molds off tires for the Firestone Rubber Company over in Akron. But he’d always felt there was something else out there, even though he didn’t know what it was or how the hell he was supposed to get to it. The closest he’d come as a kid was when his stepmom Jenny read him Great Classics of the World with that fine voice she had before the TB took hold. Most important of all, though, was seeing Bird of Paradise performed by the Akron Players at the music hall on Exchange Street. What hit Clark most was the way the stage made a doorway into a different world. For all that you could tell the princess wasn’t really Hawaiian and the stage boards creaked and the volcano in the background didn’t look much like a volcano, he was there with them. This was magic.
He went to see the same play the next night, and again the night after. Then he waited outside in the back alley for the actors to emerge. Luana the Hawaiian princess now looked more like the sort of woman you’d find behind the counter of the local grocery store, but he already knew that there was something these people had that he wanted. When, sitting drinking with them around the
“You’re not quite the hard-bitten cynic you like to think you are. You’re worse. You’re just an outright romantic, aren’t you?”
“You got me there.” He grinned back at her and raised his glass. “So? What do you think?”
“I think we should order. You’re hungry, aren’t you? I sure am.”
Clark, who liked his food plain even at a joint like this, settled for steak and fries with a brandy sauce. She ordered some kind of fish that still had its head on when it arrived. Once the waiter had gone away, he tried probing some more.
“You know what I still don’t understand? How you found me. Sure, I advertise, but it’s mostly word of mouth. The normal business I do, anyway. Then you said something about hiring some kind of private dick to find me. I know a lot of those guys. And the way that letter arrived, and all the stuff you somehow found out about me. It requires certain skills. So I was wondering…”
“You’re right. I did hire someone. But the whole deal was that they’re discreet.”
“You’re not going to say?”
“Would you want me to go around talking to everyone about what you’ve been up to?” “No, but—”
“Exactly. But I did find out some things about you, as you say. Cuttings, mainly. Nothing but a name, and a face. But still, I’m curious. I mean, I don’t remember any of the silents and talkies you were in, and doubt if many people do. But you really were close, weren’t you? You nearly made it. So—what was it? What happened? You can’t just tell me it was just those teeth and the ears. If they bothered you that much, you’d have had them fixed.”
Now she was probing, and in directions he didn’t want to go—especially not after seeing Peg in that feelie and all the memories that had been raked up since. So he ordered some more Champagne and told April Lamotte instead about what had got him into acting in the first place, and about what it was like to grow up in a down-at-heel boomtown like Hopedale, Pennsylvania (might as well put hope in the name, the locals said, because you wouldn’t find it anywhere else). Times when he was plain old Billy Gable, and the best he could have hoped for out of life was to follow his dad into the oil wildcatting trade or pull the molds off tires for the Firestone Rubber Company over in Akron. But he’d always felt there was something else out there, even though he didn’t know what it was or how the hell he was supposed to get to it. The closest he’d come as a kid was when his stepmom Jenny read him Great Classics of the World with that fine voice she had before the TB took hold. Most important of all, though, was seeing Bird of Paradise performed by the Akron Players at the music hall on Exchange Street. What hit Clark most was the way the stage made a doorway into a different world. For all that you could tell the princess wasn’t really Hawaiian and the stage boards creaked and the volcano in the background didn’t look much like a volcano, he was there with them. This was magic.
He went to see the same play the next night, and again the night after. Then he waited outside in the back alley for the actors to emerge. Luana the Hawaiian princess now looked more like the sort of woman you’d find behind the counter of the local grocery store, but he already knew that there was something these people had that he wanted. When, sitting drinking with them around the
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