Glamorama

19

Preoccupation with the fallout from Bruce's death reverberates mildly throughout the house in the 8th or the 16th and because of this there are no errands to complete and everyone seems sufficiently distracted for me to slip away. Endless conversations concern title changes, budget reductions, the leasing of an eighty-foot-tall tower crane, roving release dates, a volatile producer in L.A. seething over a rewrite. Before leaving I shoot a scene with Tammy concerning our characters' reactions toward Bruce's death (motorcycle accident, a truck carrying watermelons, Athens, a curve misjudged) but since she's not even capable of forming sentences let alone mimicking movements I shoot my lines standing in a hallway while a PA feeds me Tammy's lines far more convincingly than Tammy ever did (cutaways to Tammy will presumably be inserted at a later date). For the scene to end, a wig is placed on another PA's head and the giant Panaflex dollies in on my saddened yet hopeful" face while we hug.

Jamie is either pretending to ignore me or just doesn't register my presence while she's sitting at the computer in the living room-vacantly scanning diagrams, decoding E-malls-as I try to walk casually past her.

Outside, the sky is gray, overcast.

An apartment building on Quai de Bethune.

I'm turning the corner at Pont de Sully.

A black Citroen sits parked at the curb on Rue Saint-Louis-en-l'Isle and seeing the car causes me to walk faster toward it.

Russell drives us to an apartment building on Avenue Verdier in the Montrouge section of the city.

I'm carrying a.25-caliber Walther automatic.

I'm carrying the WINGS file printouts, folded in the pocket of my black leather Prada jacket.

I swallow a Xanax the wrong way then chew a Mentos to get the taste off my tongue.

Russell and I run up three flights of stairs.

On the fourth floor is an apartment devoid of furniture except for six white folding chairs. The walls are painted crimson and black, and cardboard storage boxes sit stacked on top of one another in towering columns. A small TV set is hooked up to a VCR that rests on top of a crate. Darkness is occasionally broken by lamps situated throughout the apartment. It's so cold that the floor is slippery with ice.

F. Fred Palakon sits in one of the white folding chairs next to two of his associates-introduced to me as David Crater and Laurence Delta-and everyone's in a black suit, everyone just slightly older than me. Cigarettes are lit, files are opened, Starbucks coffee is offered, passed around, sipped.

Facing them, I sit in one of the white folding chairs, just now noticing in a shadowy corner the Japanese man sitting in a white folding chair next to a window draped with crushed-velvet curtains. He's definitely older than the other men-flabbier, more listless-but his age is indeterminate. He slouches back into the shadows, his eyes fixed on me.

Russell keeps pacing, talking quietly into a cell phone. Finally he clicks off and leans in to Palakon, whispering something displeasing.

"Are you certain?" Palakon asks.

Russell closes his eyes, sighs while nodding.

"Okay," Palakon says. "We don't have much time, then."

Russell brushes past, taking his stance at the door behind me, and I turn around to make sure he's not leaving.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Ward," Palakon says. "You followed directions splendidly."

"You're... welcome."

"This needs to be brief," Palakon says. "We don't have much time here today. I simply wanted to introduce my associates"-Palakon nods at Delta and Crater-"and have a preliminary meeting. We just need you to verify some things. Look at a few photographs, that's all."

"Wait. So, like, the problem, like, hasn't been solved?" I ask, my voice squeaking.

"Well, no, not yet..." Palakon falters. "David and Laurence have been briefed on what you told me two days ago and we're going to figure out a way to extract you from this..." Palakon can't find a word. I'm waiting. "This... situation," he says.

"Cool, cool," I'm saying nervously, crossing my legs, then changing my mind. "Just some facts? Cool. Some photos? Okay. That's cool. I can do that."

A pause.

"Um, Mr. Ward?" Palakon asks gingerly.

"Uh, yeah?"

"Could you please"-Palakon clears his throat-"remove your sunglasses."

A longer pause, followed by a realization. "Oh. Sorry."

"Mr. Ward," Palakon starts, "how long have you been living in that house?"

"I... don't know," I say, trying to remember. "Since we came to Paris?"