Faking Life Read online

  Nico stood up, held onto the corner of the desk for balance, and groped his way to the shelf. He ran his finger along the spines of each book, pausing at his favorites, the ones he'd worked the hardest for, the books that weren't commercially viable but simply needed to be read. The ones that changed lives. The ones that would be caressed by ancient hands whose weathered skin had turned the pages for years.

  There were times he'd be walking down the street, riding the bus, or waiting in line, and he would see random hands holding a book he'd developed. His heart would swell, and he'd tap them on their shoulder and compliment them on their good taste. In those moments, Nico knew he'd found his calling. And now on his desk, from the pen of a twenty eight-year old nobody, was a story that would soon be seen by scores of eager consumers. A face soon to be recognized by millions.

  “John Gillis,” he said, holding the 's' for several seconds. There was so much untapped potential waiting to be excavated. Esther didn't understand. He needed her to spearhead the dig, to make Gillis's ordinary life into an extraordinary tale. She needed to help give the story a vitality Nico felt was lacking. Gillis had interesting things to say, sure, but there was no villain, no heroine.

  Nico smoothed his slacks and looked at the wall behind his desk. The glass frame encasing Clarence Watters's contract stared out, mocking him. He could see his reflection in it, his eyes sunken, burning. For years this monument had hung on his wall, a testament to both Nico's greatness and a partnership he thought would never die.

  And then, in one swift motion, Nico tore the frame off the wall and smashed it on his desk. Glass poured onto the carpet. He picked it up, the frame sheared in two, the contract shredded by the shards. He placed it down gently and fell back in his chair. He felt glass crunch against the soles of his shoes. He ran his hand through his hair and sighed.

  “John Gillis,” Nico said softly. “If he won't do it for us, we'll have to do it for him.”

  Nico fumbled for the phone. He opened his Rolodex and flipped to 'M', stopping when he found the correct listing. On the first try he got a dreary female voice informing him he could go straight to hell for waking her up at this ungodly hour. The second time he got it right.

  After six rings a husky voice answered. It sounded more annoyed than tired. Nico was pretty sure he heard a muffled female voice. He was sure he heard Barry White's baritone booming in the background.

  “Yeah, who is it?” the voice asked. Nico heard a commotion. He smiled.

  “Frank?” The noise died down and he heard Frank Menegaro whisper get off me before bringing the phone back to his mouth.

  “Nico, hey, just pulling an all-nighter. What's up boss?”

  “Frank, I need you to come in tomorrow, nine a.m.” Pause.

  “Nico,” he said. “Tomorrow's Saturday, I…”

  “So I can count on you here at nine?” Frank sighed.

  “Yeah, I'll be there. What's up?”

  “I'll fill you in tomorrow. Don't worry about getting dressed up. Just look natural. Wear what you'd wear if you were going out at night. If you were going to a bar.”

  “A bar?” Frank sounded confused. Nico preferred it that way.

  Nico awoke at eight the next morning to his radio blaring the Everley Brothers' “Bye Bye Love”. He took a quick shower and downed half a pot of French Roast before throwing on a Nike tracksuit and heading to the office. Frank was waiting for him with a cup of coffee, which Nico declined. He knew what he was planning to ask of his young assistant. There was no need to bring Frank up to his level by accepting a gift, no matter how insignificant. Frank's cooperation depended on his acceptance of being a subordinate.

  The meeting itself lasted less than half an hour. Nico left the office satisfied. Frank understood what was expected, and was genuinely enthusiastic about being involved. Nico wasn't entirely sure if that was a good thing—he could tell from the scant time Frank was with the agency that he had a tendency to abuse the perks of working in an industry capable of opening the door to fame—but it was comforting to know he had a trustworthy solider on his side.

  When he got home, Nico made a sandwich and tiptoed past the door where Valerie now slept. A sliver of light peeked through the slit between the door and the beige carpeting. She was awake, she wouldn't leave the room as long as he was in the apartment. Ships passing in the night had more intimate contact than he and his wife.

  By Upper East Side standards, the Vanetti's apartment was modest and ashamedly so. He'd moved there with Valerie soon after the marriage and before either of them had enough money to justify living in the city full-time. Their combined salaries—his from agenting and hers from working as a dental assistant—were enough to buy the three-room apartment on East 94th street. When the money finally started coming in, Nico had wanted a larger space to raise a family. Pietro had just been born and he hoped they'd try for another child soon. In the end, Valerie convinced him that despite his growing income, agenting was too volatile a business—too dependent on external factors rather than innate talent—to lay down a large chunk of their savings. As time passed, Nico grew resentful for having caved in so easily. If they'd moved when he wanted to, Nico thought, their marriage might have worked. Pietro would likely have a brother or sister instead of the television to keep him company. Now, the notion of a bigger apartment was all but forgotten. Nico had resigned himself to the fact that he would never have another child. And, like Valerie had warned years before, money was becoming tight. He resented her for that. A bigger house would mean not passing her room every night, feeling the sting of marital unhappiness slapping him in the face, sleeping in different beds as if spiting the hundreds of times they'd made love.

  Nico scratched his head, the mottled strands reminding him that he hadn't yet showered. The residue of last night's drinking gripped his head with harsh claws. Without realizing it was barely noon, Nico took a beer from the fridge and went into the living room where his Pietro was watching television.

  The room was dark. Nico had to squint to see the picture screen. Sweaty, muscular men in tights were pretending to wrestle while Pietro sat transfixed on a green throw cushion. Nico dragged over an ottoman from the corner and propped his feet up. He sipped his beer, watching his son mimic the fake punches and kicks. To this day, Nico couldn't understand how this “sport” had become so popular. Two behemoths with muscles looking like they'd been hooked up to helium tanks were battling in a ring, trading blows that often missed by six inches or more. Not that Pietro seemed to notice.

  To be fair, Pietro did favor more traditional sports. As the starting second baseman on his Little League team, Nico knew his son's talents were ahead of his tender age. He was a baseball fanatic, dreaming of manning the infield of Yankee Stadium on opening day. Nico went to every one of his son's games, watching intently amidst the throng of eager parents waiting to applaud their children's juvenile successes.

  Pietro's most prized possession was an autographed ball signed by his idol, Derek Jeter, which was housed in a brass mount beside his bed. His door was adorned with a poster of the boyish-looking shortstop, poised triumphantly, bat slung over his shoulder after knocking out another hit.

  “Don't you have any homework?” Nico asked. The boy didn't budge. “Pietro, do you have any homework this weekend.”

  “Yeah Dad,” he said, his eyes glued to the screen as one wrestler pretended to kick another.

  “Don't you think you should get to it?” Pietro looked at him like he'd sprouted a second head.

  “Dad,” he said, unfixing his gaze and turning towards his father. “It's Saturday morning. I have one stupid problem set due Monday.”

  “Are you expecting the tooth fairy to show up and magically finish this problem set?” Another perplexed stare. Pietro looked like he was perfecting his reaction in the event that Martians invaded the living room.

  “It's only gonna take like fifteen minutes. I'll do it tomorrow night.”

  “Aren't you cutting it a little clo
se?”

  “I haven't handed one in late yet.”

  Nico searched for something. “And how are your grades?”

  “I have a 91 average.”

  “Alright then, watch your television show.”

  “It's not a show Dad, it's a tape.”

  “Well, watch your tape.”

  “I will.” Nico watched as a wrestler took an open-handed slap like he'd been hit with a Sherman Tank.

  “How can such a smart boy like you enjoy watching this drek?” Nico asked with a playful smile. He nudged Pietro with his elbow. His son scowled.

  “Come on Dad, we've been through this already. I don't bug you about that crappy Pava-snotti music you listen to.”

  “As you may or may not know,” Nico said with a grin, “Pavarotti is one of the greatest singers in the history of Italian opera. It would do you well to listen to him every now and then.” Pietro made a hmphing noise and returned to the tube. “Didn't I read somewhere that all the matches are decided beforehand?”

  “Yes Dad, that's true,” Pietro said with a groan, like he was revealing classified information his father couldn't possibly comprehend.

  “So why do you like it so much if you know who's going to win?”

  “You don't know who's going to win Dad, that's the whole point.”

  “I see,” Nico said, though he still didn't understand. After a moment, Pietro turned around, embarrassed that his father was unable to grasp such a simple concept.

  “It's like this, Dad. You know action movies?”

  “Do I know action movies?”

  “Yeah, you know, like Die Hard and them.”

  “Yes, I know action movies.”

  “Well it's kind of like an action movie. I mean the movie isn't really real, right? I mean there's a script and a bad guy and a good guy and the people root for the good guy and boo the bad guy, and a lot of times the bad guy wins a few fights before the good guy finally beats him in the end.”

  “Alright…”

  “And when you watch Die Hard, do you ever say 'Wait a minute, Bruce Willis didn't really just get punched in the face', do you? I mean it looks like he did and he acts like he did, so you kind of go along with it.” Nico listened intently. “It's like whaddayacallit, suspension of misbelief.”

  “Disbelief.”

  “Whatever. Disbelief. Anyway, if you don't tell yourself that they're not really punching and kicking each other, you have a lot more fun than if you sat there and said 'Hey, that's not real'. They know what's going to happen, but the people watching don't.”

  Nico remained silent.

  “Just 'cause it's not really real doesn't mean you can't have fun watching it. Just like a movie. Plus, some of these guys are really good athletes. One guy won a gold medal in the Olympics and a whole bunch of them played pro football. Their arms are bigger than your head.”

  Nico nodded, watching as one of the men picked up a not-so fake looking steel chair and hit the other man in the head, eliciting a not-so fake sounding clang. When the other man got up, there was a steady stream of not-so fake looking blood streaming from a deep gash on his forehead. Pietro grinned and looked at his father.

  “And sometimes Dad, sometimes they get hurt even.” Nico nodded. “Any more questions?”

  Nico shook his head. For some reason, that statement made the most sense of all.

  Sometimes, they get hurt even.

  Book 2

  Chapter Nine

  John sprinted past the New York Pop souvenir stand on West 4th street, the very store he'd bought his first fake ID at back in 1990. And his second in 1991 after that one was confiscated trying to buy a six-pack at a Korean deli. He passed it every day on his way to work, and as he breathlessly chugged along, weaving in and out of pedestrian traffic, John thought about all the times he and his friends had gotten tossed out of bars just like Slappy's for claiming they were from places like “Main Street, New Hampshire” and “Ten Oak Drive, San Francisco”.

  He apologized to the old woman with a bag of groceries he accidentally clipped rounding the corner and passed the movie theater with the 1950's marquee. He sprinted down Sixth Avenue and flung open the door to Slappy's, trying to act calm, but his lungs were ready to burst. He needed to start running again

  As soon as John opened the door he saw Artie waiting for him, sipping a martini and sporting a grimace like he'd sucked a tub full of lemons. Artie tapped his watch and put it to his ear.

  “Hey John, this thing doesn't seem to be working. Would you be a pal and tell me what time it is?”

  “Artie, I'm sorry, I just…”

  “No seriously, take a look at your watch and tell me what time it is.” John reluctantly pulled up his sleeve.

  “It's seven fifteen.”

  “Seven fifteen, that's odd. I was pretty sure your shift started at six. Maybe your watch is fast.”

  “Artie, it'll never happen again. I just got caught up.”

  Artie laid a chubby hand on John's shoulder and leaned in. “Kid, I'm not trying to break your balls, but you've been slacking off here like it's nobody's business. I see lines at the bar that never used to be there. I hear people complaining that they're not getting served, or getting served the wrong drinks. This place is no busier than it was six months ago. Bottom line, receipts are down. I can't ignore it anymore.”

  Artie reached over and opened up John's jacket. He sighed when he saw the baggy red sweater with a saucer-shaped grape juice stain above the navel.

  “And you don't dress like you used to. I'm not running a fashion show here, but if the bartenders look like shit then we look like shit.”

  “I don't look like shit Artie.”

  “You do look like shit,” Artie said, spittle landing in the middle of the stain. “I've half a mind to ask you to bartend topless tonight, but I don't want to get sick. But you keep pulling this crap and you'll be bartending in your skivvies.” Artie smiled. John took a breath. Everything was going to be o.k. “Seriously kid, I'm not an asshole and I'm not your daddy. But I do own this place, and I need to see improvement or we're gonna have a problem. A serious one.”

  “You got it Art. Never happen again.” Artie nodded and went back to the black podium that posed as a maitre'd stand. John slid behind the bar, nodded to Enzo who nodded back as he dumped a tub of ice over a bucket of Coronas. Empty except for a few drinkers and a guy in a Yankees hat working on a plate of wings. Stacy walked over, an angry look on her face. She folded her arms across her chest and made a huff noise. John took a breath and prepared to be berated.

  “You're late asshole. I've had to man this place by myself over an hour. The fuck've you been?”

  “Hey Stace,” John said sheepishly. “Can I get you a beer or something?” Her eyes widened.

  “Hey Stace? That's all you have to say? You try waiting tables and serving drinks at the same time, then you can say 'Hey Stace' to me.”

  “I'm sorry Stace, really,” he said with a foolish grin. He instantly knew he was forgiven. Stacy took a seat on a stool across from him. She was wearing a tight red sleeveless top that showed off her toned arms. She looked good tonight, her hair in one of those French braids deals. She looked classy, almost too good for a place like Slappy's. Sometimes John wished a classy guy would come in and take her away, a nice businessman or a passionate artist. Someone who'd treat her well. Sometimes he caught her looking at him and wondered.

  “So what kept you? Hot date?” John shook his head. Stacy was always needling him about his love life. Ever since she'd given him her phone number, she assumed the reason he hadn't called was because he was either married or asexual. She certainly fended off enough drunk hooligans every night to know it was irregular for someone to be uninterested, single or not.

  “Nope, no date. Unless you count a bottle of Andre.” She scrunched her eyebrows, looked confused.

  “So what was it then? You have been acting a weird lately, subdued if I didn't know you better. But you're not usually lat
e, let alone by over an hour. So what gives?”

  “Nothing gives, I…” he stopped, decided to have some fun with her. “I lied. I do have a new love in my life.” Stacy's jaw dropped. She quickly closed it.

  “Something new? I thought you said…you mean…” She quickly put on a smile and tried to act cool. It didn't work.

  “I'm not going to go into details—you don't want to hear it, trust me. We just stay in my room for hours at a time. She was the reason I was late.” He had to keep himself from laughing. Like sailors called their boats “she”, he supposed referring to his creation as “she” was appropriate.

  “Hmph,” Stacy mumbled, as if expecting John to clarify. “Well she's a lucky girl, you can tell her I said that.”

  “Oh, it's not a woman,” he said. “Just a project. Like the Jolly Roger or something.”

  “Jolly Roger?”

  “Yeah, the ship? Haven't you read up on your pirate lore?”

  “No, sorry.” He smiled, leaned over, and gently patted her hand.

  “That's alright.”

  John noticed the man in the Yankees hat waving an empty beer glass towards them. “I think there's a customer about to have coronary. Better get on it before he complains to Artie about the shitty service.” He winked. “We'll talk more later.”

  “Yeah, I guess I'd better go then,” she said distractedly. Stacy strode off, looking back over her shoulder. He could see in her eyes that she was still trying to figure him out. He gave a little wave with his fingers and settled in behind the bar.

  He was mixing a trio of green demons for three guys with Greek letters on their caps when he saw Esther walk in the front door. He stopped pouring for a moment, drawing ire from the burly one with an indistinguishable blue stain on his sweatshirt.

  “Uh, buddy, you wanna top that off?” John apologized and filled the glasses. He watched them toast, then trot off to play darts.

  Esther gave a wave and a funny to see you here look. She slid into a stool, put her purse on the bar and asked him for a whiskey sour.