Afterlife by Paul Monette Page B

least to Mark. Connie, who would’ve taken this job for half the pay, so mystical was the place to her, knew everything but didn’t speak either. “Ted Kneeland just called,” she added neutrally, about as far as she went into lifestyle matters.
    Mark stood at his desk but didn’t sit down. The full list of the hundred and nineteen calls was typed out on three neat pages, edge to edge on the blotter. He sent Connie out to gather all the principals of the Paramount deal, then glanced down the roster of players who wanted a piece of Lou. Still he did not sit down, the briefcase still in his hand.
    The fifth season of “Hard Knocks” was scheduled to commence two weeks from Wednesday. By spring the show would be ready for sale to syndication, and then Lou would have enough cash to buy all the horses of Arabia. The Paramount deal was for a feature, a good cop/bad cop comedy, to be shot during Lou’s hiatus. Angela, formerly Miss Arizona, who shopped with a murderous vengeance day after day, never lost sight of the golden goose in all of this. Eagerly she encouraged Lou’s product spokesmanship throughout the western world: batteries, soft drinks, fitness parlors.
    On the wall opposite, Lou Ciotta grinned from a shiny Cibachrome print, the prototype for a poster that had sold seven million units in the last two years. Lou’s bedroom eyes were full of dirty linen, and he wore a baby-blue tank top that showed a lot of pumped and hairy cleavage. Mark’s job was to graph the national turn-on that Lou evoked, working with total abstractedness, since Lou did nothing for him personally. He’d sat through countless meetings poolside at Lou’s house in Malibu, himself in a tie and Lou in a tank suit, peaceable as a eunuch while Lou scratched his voluminous basket.
    Connie buzzed: Sid Rawls on the line. Mark picked up and went into automatic overdrive, parsing the Paramount deal. Quickly they worked out a counteroffer, its tax loopholes intricate as crochet. Sid didn’t ask how London was or tell a joke. The deal was all there was between them, until the end, when Sid tossed out, “So, who’s the lucky girl you’re bringing Sunday?”
    Mark chuckled dryly. “Sorry, I haven’t got that far yet,” he replied, but promised he’d drop by Sid’s house after the show. He hung up and glared at his week-at-a-glance, where Connie had written in red for Sunday: EMMYS, 5 P.M . His jaw tightened decisively. He tapped a number and flicked the phone to the speaker box, moving around to swing his door shut.
    â€œHello?” Ted Kneeland’s voice was bright and inexhaustible, like the boy himself.
    â€œHi, it’s me.”
    â€œHey, welcome home. How’s Fergie and Di?” Like a cheerleader with a megaphone. “I decided I’m cooking you dinner. Nothing drab and English, I promise.”
    â€œListen, I’m busy tonight.”
    â€œOh, I thought we said …” Mark could hear the younger man shift gears and swallow the protest. Ted was right, of course: there was a date. “No problem. I’ll come by later.” In just five weeks he was so well trained.
    â€œLook, Ted, I want to be alone right now. I’ll call you, okay?”
    There was a moment’s silence, during which Ted must have calculated the odds of pushing the point. Not worth it. “Right now” was forever, as far as they were concerned. Or maybe Ted was shrewder than that, stopping to wonder what he had left behind in Mark’s house. A pair of jeans, a couple of CD’s, nothing that couldn’t be replaced. “Yeah, sure,” he said evenly. “Take care, huh? I’ll see you around.”
    That was how easily it was done, as economical as a telegram. Mark’s pace seemed to quicken now as he swung the door open again, his private deal done with. He tossed the briefcase onto the sofa. Connie called out the executive’s