secret apartments, but the wife meant it for real. More time. Quality time. She thought they should travel. They should go see the Grand Canyon, she said.
Factboy and his family lived in a modest three-bedroom in Flagstaff, AZ—just an hour away from the Canyon. They’d never seen it.
Sensing that refusal might lead to separation, possibly divorce, and a smart enough lawyer might start taking a close look at Factboy’s revenue streams, jeopardizing pretty much everything, Factboy caved.
They went to the Grand Canyon. Stayed at the El Tovar, the oldest resort hotel, which looked like a huge pile of smoky timber perched within yards of a big gaping hole in the earth.
Within minutes of arriving at the South Rim, Factboy started having panic attacks. He wasn’t particularly afraid of heights, though the mile plunge to the bottom of the canyon was kind of terrifying. Instead, he found that he was completely freaked out by the lack of a fence. Not even a halfhearted little mesh-wire number. Not so much as a guardrail. Nothing. And there were kids everywhere—Factboy’s kids included—dancing, posing, goofing around, completely oblivious of the fact that certain death was just one fucking ooopsie away. Factboy couldn’t bring himself to look. He couldn’t bring himself to not look.
And then he received his urgent request from Mann.
One look at the screen and he told his wife—
“I’ve got to use the facilities.”
The “facilities”: marriage code for number two.
“Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
“Everything in place?” Mann asked.
“Yep,” A.D. said. “All he has to do is step outside.”
7
Who’s they? I want you to tell me who they is.
—John Aquino, Blow Out
H ARDIE COULDN’T believe what his eyes were transmitting to his brain.
“Where the fuck is my car? ”
“Get away from the window,” the girl scream-whispered behind him. “Please, I’m begging you. You looked, you’re upset, now move the fuck away before something really bad happens.”
“It was just there. ”
“Are you really this dense? Or haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?”
But Hardie was too focused on the stretch of asphalt in front of the garage. The sight absolutely boggled his mind. It didn’t make sense. When he finally glanced down at the psycho chick crouched next to him, mic stand in her hand, he decided he’d had enough. He darted for the door. He thought he was moving pretty fast, but she was a lot faster, even limping. The girl easily closed the distance, slid herself into the space between him and the wall, and again pointed the edge of the mic stand at the hollow of his throat.
“No,” she said.
Hardie tried to push her out of the way. “Move.”
“ They took your car, don’t you realize that?”
“Well, I’ll just force Them to give it back. Move.”
“You can’t go outside. You go outside, you’re dead.”
“I can still catch them.”
Hardie was half-serious about that. The roads up here were twisty. Winding. They— whoever —just stole it a few seconds ago. He heard them do it. Maybe he had a chance—slim, he knew, but it was still a chance—at catching them on foot. But then what? Leave this girl here, by herself, in the house he was supposed to be guarding?
She hissed at him:
“Get down! It’s bad enough they saw you!”
Hardie sometimes marveled at how quickly things could spin out of control. He’d been in L.A. only, what?… ninety minutes total?… and he’d already lost all his possessions except for the wallet in his back pocket, the useless set of car keys in his front pocket, the cell phone with no service, and the clothes on his back. He’d jumped off a roof and landed in unidentified animal crap. Hardie half expected this crazy bird to force him to strip, then make him jump off the back deck into the wilds, just to show him— that’s how Hollywood does ya.
Then Hardie remembered that his carry-on bag had still been in the passenger seat of the
Factboy and his family lived in a modest three-bedroom in Flagstaff, AZ—just an hour away from the Canyon. They’d never seen it.
Sensing that refusal might lead to separation, possibly divorce, and a smart enough lawyer might start taking a close look at Factboy’s revenue streams, jeopardizing pretty much everything, Factboy caved.
They went to the Grand Canyon. Stayed at the El Tovar, the oldest resort hotel, which looked like a huge pile of smoky timber perched within yards of a big gaping hole in the earth.
Within minutes of arriving at the South Rim, Factboy started having panic attacks. He wasn’t particularly afraid of heights, though the mile plunge to the bottom of the canyon was kind of terrifying. Instead, he found that he was completely freaked out by the lack of a fence. Not even a halfhearted little mesh-wire number. Not so much as a guardrail. Nothing. And there were kids everywhere—Factboy’s kids included—dancing, posing, goofing around, completely oblivious of the fact that certain death was just one fucking ooopsie away. Factboy couldn’t bring himself to look. He couldn’t bring himself to not look.
And then he received his urgent request from Mann.
One look at the screen and he told his wife—
“I’ve got to use the facilities.”
The “facilities”: marriage code for number two.
“Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
“Everything in place?” Mann asked.
“Yep,” A.D. said. “All he has to do is step outside.”
7
Who’s they? I want you to tell me who they is.
—John Aquino, Blow Out
H ARDIE COULDN’T believe what his eyes were transmitting to his brain.
“Where the fuck is my car? ”
“Get away from the window,” the girl scream-whispered behind him. “Please, I’m begging you. You looked, you’re upset, now move the fuck away before something really bad happens.”
“It was just there. ”
“Are you really this dense? Or haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?”
But Hardie was too focused on the stretch of asphalt in front of the garage. The sight absolutely boggled his mind. It didn’t make sense. When he finally glanced down at the psycho chick crouched next to him, mic stand in her hand, he decided he’d had enough. He darted for the door. He thought he was moving pretty fast, but she was a lot faster, even limping. The girl easily closed the distance, slid herself into the space between him and the wall, and again pointed the edge of the mic stand at the hollow of his throat.
“No,” she said.
Hardie tried to push her out of the way. “Move.”
“ They took your car, don’t you realize that?”
“Well, I’ll just force Them to give it back. Move.”
“You can’t go outside. You go outside, you’re dead.”
“I can still catch them.”
Hardie was half-serious about that. The roads up here were twisty. Winding. They— whoever —just stole it a few seconds ago. He heard them do it. Maybe he had a chance—slim, he knew, but it was still a chance—at catching them on foot. But then what? Leave this girl here, by herself, in the house he was supposed to be guarding?
She hissed at him:
“Get down! It’s bad enough they saw you!”
Hardie sometimes marveled at how quickly things could spin out of control. He’d been in L.A. only, what?… ninety minutes total?… and he’d already lost all his possessions except for the wallet in his back pocket, the useless set of car keys in his front pocket, the cell phone with no service, and the clothes on his back. He’d jumped off a roof and landed in unidentified animal crap. Hardie half expected this crazy bird to force him to strip, then make him jump off the back deck into the wilds, just to show him— that’s how Hollywood does ya.
Then Hardie remembered that his carry-on bag had still been in the passenger seat of the
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