Faking Life Page 15

  Artie snorted a laugh. A shred of lettuce flew from his mouth onto Nico's plate. “A book? You're shitting me right? The guy's a bartender, what's he know about books?”

  “More than you'd think,” Nico said. “Actually that's one of the reasons I wanted to meet. You see we need to kind of…spur his imagination, give him a shock to the system. We need to get his creative juices flowing in a different direction. You need to send him a message that things won't be the same.” Artie shook his head.

  “I don't follow.”

  Nico continued. “Start him on a new shift, throw a few obstacles in his path. See how he reacts. Give him a new dress code, alter his perspective a bit.”

  “I already tell him to look good.” Nico smiled demurely and shook his head.

  “I mean a different kind of dress code.” Artie looked offended. Nico leaned in, lowering his voice an octave. “Bottom line Arthur, I want you to make John Gillis quit.” Artie looked at Nico for a moment, unsure whether he was serious, then burst out laughing. When he calmed down, Nico wiped a half-chewed piece of bread off his plate.

  “Why the hell would I do that? Gillis is my best tender. The girls dig him and the guys aren't put off like they are with a lot of other servers. He's worth at least another five hundred in drinks every weekend. You don't mess with money in the bank.”

  Nico was hoping Artie would bring up money. As an agent, it was Nico's job to understand people's basic desires, their needs. He knew what people wanted, and how to give it them. Naysayers called agents glorified middlemen, comparing their commission to a brokerage fee. Nico laughed at this notion, wishing those simpletons could watch him work. He knew if they ever walked a mile in his shoes, they'd fall flat on their faces.

  “You're not screwing with anything Arthur,” he said, placing his hand on the table, barely an inch away from Artie's. Artie flinched but his hand remained bolted down. “But right now you're thinking about the short term impact, when you should be thinking about the future. I need more from John Gillis than what he's giving me. I need him to rebel. I want him to get so pissed off that he'd rather be unemployed than take your shit. If everything works the way I think it will, that short-term investment will pay dividends for your franchise that'll put any bank to shame.”

  “My franchise?”

  Nico looked straight into Artie's eyes. They were hopeful, longing, waiting for a prophecy he could rest his dreams on.

  “Yes, franchise. Maybe an institution. A landmark. Cheers isn't just a bar, Artie, it's an attraction. You don't go to Cheers to have a drink and watch the Red Sox lose. You go so you can tell your friends you were sat where Norm and Cliff did. That's the kind of bar you can own, Arthur. All you need is a spark. You already had one, but that was blind luck. Right now, you need to create your own.” Artie frowned, displeased that Nico didn't consider his burgeoning business the result of his own hard work. Nico predicted that would be his initial reaction. Piling best-case scenarios on top of each other only added up to a mountain of bullshit. He needed to add a touch of realism to thin the batter.

  “If you want Slappy's to be more than just a trendy Saturday night hang-out, you need to give people reason to come besides drinks and ass. You need to create buzz. You need to do is hook people in, get them talking. You need to give them something no other bar can offer. Something that can't be hired or bought or plugged in.”

  Artie was silent, thoroughly entranced.

  “So what does Gillis have to do with any of this?” he finally said, taking a bite of his sandwich and trying to play nonchalant. “And besides, you want to shake things up so much, why shouldn't I just fire him?”

  “That's the thing Arthur,” Nico said, delicately sipping his coffee. “John needs to instigate it himself. Otherwise it's not natural. He needs to believe that he's the one calling the shots.”

  Nico could tell Artie was still struggling. “I still don't see why I should care about all this,” Artie said. “Why should I help you?”

  Nico waited a moment, confidence radiating from his face. Artie sat back, waiting for an explanation.

  “Here's the thing,” Nico said. “If John Gillis's book is as big as we think it can be, everything associated with it will become notorious. It's like product placement. You ever see Top Gun?” Artie nodded but looked totally lost, trying to comprehend both how this might help his business and how Gillis had the brains to put a pen to paper for something other than filling out his time sheet. “When that movie hit theaters, the sales of Ray Ban sunglasses went through the roof. People had to own a pair, because that's what Tom Cruise wore.” He smacked his palm against the table to drive the point home. Artie jumped.

  “I still don't see what this has to do with me. What's he writing anyway? One of those, whaddaya callem, legal thrillers or something?” Nico chuckled.

  “I'll just say this Arthur, and I'm probably giving away too much as it is. I don't want anything leaking to the press, but I feel I can trust you.” The mention of the word 'press' caught Artie's attention. “Your bar is featured prominently in the book. Sure he has some choice words for the place—what employee wouldn't bitch a little about their employer?—but when this book hits, and hits big, everyone and their mother is going to want a piece of Slappy's Slop House. You think you have a loyal clientele now? Wait'll you start getting tourists who'll pay eight bucks for a bottle of Budweiser just so they can get served by someone who worked with a celebrity.” Artie seemed lost in thought. Slowly, Nico could see the dollar signs whizzing across his eyes.

  “So what's my part? What do I need to do?”

  Nico smiled. And sometimes, he thought as he smiled and sipped his coffee, it's just that simple.

  After leaving the coffee shop, Nico went home and took a nap. He called Frank and told him to lock up when he left. He heard soft music coming from Valerie's room. He sighed and tiptoed past.

  At 8:30 he went back to the agency. He left the main lights off and closed the door to his office, turning on only his desk lamp. Nico was pleased with the meeting. The key to every good partnership was mutual benefits. It was a gamble for Artie, but one that could pay off. He might be sacrificing a few dollars up front, but opening the possibility for boatloads more on the back end.

  Nico opened a drawer and took out a bottle of Dewar's. He unwrapped the top and poured till the count of five. He'd finished the Glenlivet a few days ago under the pretense that as soon as it was gone, he would revert back to soft drinks and coffee.

  The first sip felt like fire in his mouth. He sucked on the liquid, his eyes tearing at the bitterness. Finally, when the taste had deadened, he swallowed and gasped for air.

  Nico pitied men like Artie. Not for their ambition, he at least respected that. He truthfully did hope Artie could finance a chain of those silly bars and make a name for himself. He could turn it into the next Studio 54 for all Nico cared. What he hated about people like Artie was their pathetic inability to fend for themselves. They were scavengers, pretending to chew the grass while waiting for a predator to make the kill so they could eat the remains. Other animals would see them eating and infer that they'd killed it themselves, giving credit where none was due. They were the ones who stood on the shoulders of giants and claimed the success as their own. Nico knew. He'd read all the clippings about that bonehead actor making an ass out of himself. Artie was responsible for none of it. People loved to bask in the cold afterglow of burned out fame. The heat wasn't earned, it was taken. And it was something only a fool would fail to capitalize on.

  Nico had fought to build his agency. His parents scraped for every penny when they came over from Italy. They never took out loans, never borrowed, and invested wisely. With little money to spend on toys, Nico spent every waking minute trudging back and forth to the library on 42nd street, sitting among the dusty wooden chairs, reading to escape the drudgery of life. His parent's mailbox overflowed with overdue notices, and he received several lashes from his father's belt when they were forced to p
ay his late fees. Nico remained in awe of the men and woman who gave their lives to make possible the books he held in his hands. To Nico, that was love on a higher plain.

  It was a powerful feeling, Nico knew, to be partially responsible for such a creation. The average reader didn't give a crap who an author's agent was. Books were like movies in that way; nobody cares who builds the sets or does the makeup. The bottom line is what ends up on the screen, not how it got there.

  After two glasses of whiskey, the static in his head rising with the alcohol, Nico picked up the phone and dialed John Gillis. On the third ring he heard a tired voice answer, “hello?”

  “John?” Nico said.

  “Speaking,” came the forceful voice.

  “John, Nico Vanetti here. How's everything holding up?” Nico heard him clear his throat.

  “What's up Nico? Things are holding up, had a little trouble at work but I'll be back soon. Hey, what'd you think of what I sent you? I felt weird about it at first, but hey, if I'm writing this thing I need to have pretty thick skin, right?”

  “That's a good mindset. Just keep sending whatever you have, we'll take care of the rest,” Nico said. “I'm just glad to see it's coming along. I've watched dozens of young writers fall flat when faced with this kind of pressure. It's good to see your juices are still flowing. Everyone here loves the book and we're absolutely on pins and needles to see how it ends.” Nico heard a cough on the other end. He quietly refilled his glass.

  “So what's up Nico?”

  “Nothing much, I just wanted to see how things are progressing,” he said. “I've already been in touch with several houses, and there's quite a bit of buzz building about your book. I must say, I haven't been this excited about a project in a long, long time. I had some questions at the beginning, but my boy, you've really answered them.”

  “Good to hear,” Gillis said, stifling a yawn. “Anything else I can do for you Nico? I'm kinda tired.”

  “Nah, we'll take care of all the business mumbo-jumbo. You just keep plugging away.”

  “No problem there. I'll tell you, and I never thought I'd say this, but I'm really enjoying this, the writing I mean. At first I was doing it just to screw my head on straight, but I don't know, there's just so much in there. I feel like every bolt I tighten loosens three more. But in a good way, like opening some wrapping paper and finding two or three presents instead of the one you were expecting.” Two-book deal, three-book deal floated by in Nico's mind. “Hey listen, do you think I should come into the agency at some point, you know, just to touch base in person?”

  Shit, Nico thought. He was hoping Gillis wouldn't say that. He didn't want to meet, not yet. He wanted to keep the aura of a supreme being, like the Wizard of Oz. Throw back that curtain and all that was left was a middle-aged man with graying hair who, aside from his custom suits, didn't look any more knowledgeable than the next guy. Until he was ready to actively shop the book around, all the pieces in place, Nico preferred to keep away from John. Once the book was finished and the deal signed, it wouldn't matter anymore.

  “I'll be out of the office next week,” Nico lied. He'd make sure Frank held Gillis's calls. “Maybe after that we can get together.” Better to leave it open ended, not get pegged into a specific time. That way if he needed to finagle his way out of another meeting in a few weeks, he could think of an excuse on the fly.

  “That's cool. I've been trying to keep up a schedule, but my social life has been non-existent. Guess it comes with the territory though, right? Don't see too many writers out partying until 4 a.m.” Nico sighed and took a sip of his drink. He sincerely hoped his talk with Artie had the desired effect. He'd find out soon enough.

  “Just keep plugging away,” Nico said, now aware of the sluggishness in his voice. “Everything will work out just fine.”

  “I know,” John said. “It's just the getting there that has me scared shitless.”

  Me too, Nico thought. He threw back the rest of his drink and filled another glass.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Esther and Jeremy Friedkin had taken an immediate liking to each other. Her comfort level with him was extraordinary compared to most guys she met, mostly due to her misguided belief that he was homosexual. They'd met the summer after their senior years in college and, despite spending nearly every waking moment together for several months, Jeremy hadn't shown one iota of sexual interest in her.

  They'd met at a poetry slam, both of them caffeinated beyond belief and eager to dissect the poet's esoteric ramblings. Esther quickly grew to like Jeremy and his crowd of friends, yet while his friends would take every opportunity to compliment her clothes and taste in literature, she'd often catch them gazing longingly at the slightest bit of cleavage. It was the naughty teacher fantasy, Esther thought. She allowed them to indulge forgotten adolescent fantasies of seductive high school substitutes who might suddenly interrupt math lessons and ask them to stay late to help clean the erasers.

  Esther was shocked when, after months without a single mention of her, Jeremy introduced his girlfriend, a beautiful redhead named Heather who clung to his arm like a Velcro koala bear. At first glimpse she felt something was wrong with Heather, the way her fingers clutched him so tight her knuckles turned pale. Whenever Jeremy left Heather's side, even to get a drink or chat with a friend, she looked like a child lost in the middle of a huge mall. That was the first time Esther had ever taken a mild interest in Jeremy. The notion that Heather could love him so desperately made Esther wonder what it was that made a girl feel lost when not by his side.

  At first Esther was insulted he'd kept her in the dark, but when the relationship ended a month later and he divulged the details, Esther understood why Jeremy had been hesitant.

  Heather wasn't attached just to Jeremy, but to her Zoloft as well. At first Jeremy had pledged to see her through thick and thin, but the ceaseless beating his heart took from her emotional peaks and valleys had become too much. The last straw had come on their two-year anniversary when, right after he gave her a dozen roses and a silver ring, Heather unplugged his microwave and threw it through his window.

  Esther and Jeremy had remained friends since, their respective love for good books and better gossip keeping them close despite work schedules that confined their correspondence to online chats and platonically flirtatious emails.

  Jeremy worked at a publishing house where he'd been recently promoted from assistant to associate, still struggling to make his mark. The promotion had been much needed. Esther was happy for him, knowing that if he hadn't gotten a raise soon he might be inclined to use his corporate AMEX to pay rent. Given the ludicrously low pay and minimal job security in publishing, especially at his level, Jeremy was finally satisfied that his job was secure.

  His instant messenger name—IH8BOOKS—was hidden from his coworkers. Esther's moniker, NYHAG86, was inspired by a furious argument with her mother one Saturday night when she said, “Esther, baby, you're turning into one of those New York hags. You should leave now before that city sinks its claws into you any deeper.”

  Despite the pithy intimacy of the Internet, Esther felt good to know that a real flesh and blood person was on the other end, enjoying her company.

  IH8BOOKS: So what're you up to tonight? I figure even you must go out on Fridays.

  NYHAG86: Courtney's trying to get me to meet her new guy whom she “claims” has a friend in the insurance biz that he wants to introduce me to.

  IH8BOOKS: Insurance? Ah, the industry of adventure and mystery. Thank god you don't smoke, I don't think he'd give you a good “policy”. ?

  NYHAG86: God, your sophistication amazes me.

  IH8BOOKS: Actually, I just burped. How's that for sophistication?

  NYHAG86: You know what scares me? That I have no problem staying home on Friday nights anymore. I think I'm turning into a hermit as we speak. I've been out exactly three times this month and all to the same bar.

  IH8BOOKS: Well I think I've been out exactly once thi
s month and that was for a pub party at Rivertown. The party sucked, but you have no idea how impressed New York women are by editors. It's probably because they don't know how much money we make. If they ever asked what kind of car I drive, I'd tell them it depends on which one my parents weren't using that week.

  NYHAG86: You ever get tired of it?

  A full minute passed without a response. Esther worried Jeremy might have been disconnected. It wasn't like him to keep her waiting. Still in her bathrobe, the interruption made her debate whether to get up and get dressed. Either that or face another guilt trip from Courtney. For some reason Courtney really wanted Esther to meet her new beau. She was absolutely convinced he might be the one. Well, at least for this month. As she stood up, prepared to hit the closet, a message flashed on the screen.

  IH8BOOKS: I get tired of the political bullshit sometimes, but never the end result. Unless something miraculous happens the money will never be that great. But how many people can say that love that they do for a living? Probably the same with you, right? Except you'll be raking in a lot more cash when you move up the food chain.

  NYHAG86: I don't really think about it like that.

  IH8BOOKS: So anyway, speaking of money, I hear Vanetti's got something big on the stove. I got word the other day, some kind of inspirational memoir for slackers. Sounds kinda cool. Why haven't you mentioned it to me?

  NYHAG86: It isn't really up to me, but trust me, if it was up to me you'd be the first person to see it. I think a book written by a dissatisfied New Yorker would be best edited by a cynical New Yorker.

  IH8BOOKS: Why am I cynical?