I’m Losing You by Bruce Wagner Page A

slippery.”
    â€œWould you like me to call you back? Or would you mind holding a second longer?”
    â€œI don’t mind holding.” Donny looked down at his lap. “Do you?”
    â€œDo I—?”
    â€œDo you
mind
.”
    â€œHolding?”
    He was actually flirting with Phylliss’s assistant. She jumped on, interrupting the volley.
    â€œDonny
dearest
, is that you?”
    â€œYes, Mother.”
    â€œI want to thank you again for the lunch. I thought it went
very
well.”
    â€œIt was a stone groove, Mother.”
    â€œHave you heard from her?”
    â€œDon’t be desperate, Phyll.”
    â€œDoes she hate me?”
    â€œShe thinks you’re the best.”
    â€œWell, I think she’s
wonderful
. So we’ll see. And if she doesn’t do it, she doesn’t do it. Fuck her and fuck you.”
    â€œThat’s my girl.” A message flashed on the Amtel: YOUR FATHER ON 4 . Donny hiked up his trousers. “Phyll, I gotta jump.”
    Twenty-five years ago, Bernie Ribkin produced a string of low-budget horror films that made a fortune. An over-tan Mike Todd wannabe, he disappeared in the mid-seventies, after the divorce. Thestory was he’d been living in Europe, producing films, but Donny didn’t buy it. He resurfaced a few years ago and was living in a stuccoplex on Burton Way. On occasion, the agent ran into associates after Bernie introduced himself at Eclipse or Drai’s the night before (“I didn’t know you had a father!”). The Veepee always cringed. He called him “my crazy stepdad.”
    They exchanged guarded hellos. Donny promised himself he wouldn’t blow up. That would be his meditation exercise.
    â€œHow’s your mother?”
    â€œWhy don’t you ask her?”
    â€œI’d like to be able to. I put
several
calls in but she won’t answer.”
    â€œSerena’s not doing too well.”
    â€œSomehow I don’t think she’s too eager to see me.”
    â€œGuess you’ll never know.”
    â€œShe wasn’t all that eager to see me when she was tip-top!”
    The agent could smell the cigar and the lox, eggs and onions. “Listen—Dad.” He hated himself for calling him that. Mistake, mistake. “I got five people waiting for me on a conference.”
    â€œI’ll let you go. Do you think we could have lunch?”
    â€œTalk to Taj.”
    â€œWhat’s his last name, Mahal?” laughed the old man. “Looks like I’ve finally got my fucking sequel in place.”
    â€œGreat.”
    â€œCan you believe it took me thirty years?”
    â€œThat’s Hollywood. Gotta jump.”
    â€œI could use some of your casting ideas.”
    â€œTalk to Taj and he’ll make a time.”

    He found himself on the freeway, heading downtown. He got off on San Pedro and there was a woman with a sign: GOd BLeSS . She had a little girl with her. Donny pulled over and gave her a twenty. The woman was pretty and had all her teeth. He asked what had happened and she said she was working for an insurance company. Her employers were hit hard by the quake and had to let her go; people were still dining out on the fucking earthquake. Donny wondered what the real story was, as if a simpler truth lay hidden behind the insipid lie—as if being jobless and alone with a kid wasn’t enough to make you destitute.
    Her name was Ursula, and Tiffany was her daughter. He asked if they wanted to get something to eat. She thanked him but declined. He could probably get her to say yes, but what was the get-off? What would he do with them? They probably had the virus—she’d cozily left that one off the verbal résumé. So big deal. Donny figured he wouldn’t have to touch her. For thirty dollars cash money she’d suck him off with the kid watching, gratis. Or do the God thing. That could be fun—rent her a place in Toluca Lake