their bodies did not touch.
“Phil Needle Productions. Yes, may I ask who—yes. Hey, I thought it was you. How are you? Yes. Yes. Me too. Okay. Yes, he’s right here.” She stopped giggling and put the phone to her chest. “It’s Leonard Steed.”
Leonard Steed! Phil Needle talked to him every day and still it was like electric pants just hearing the name. “I’ll take it, of course,” said frantic Phil Needle. “In my office. Put him on hold.” Phil Needle ran a hand through his kempt hair and twitched his way back down the hall, past the plant they never moved. Why didn’t they? Why didn’t they? Why didn’t they move the plant to the window like he had once said? “Leonard,” he said, shutting his door with his foot, but he’d pressed the wrong button and tried again. “Steed, how are you?”
Leonard Steed was the somethingth-richest man in the country or the world. He was rotten rich. He lived in a house as big as a house, to which Phil Needle would never be invited, despite several promises of future invitations. He had long hair on the back of his head and no hair in front, just a huge round space over his calm, pretty eyes, where he did his thinking, and long shirts half-unbuttoned that always seemed to be blowing in the wind. He was an outlaw and a rapscallion, a fortune finder and a problem solver, and Phil Needle was very lucky to know him, although Leonard Steed had told him once that all luck was skill.
“Who am I talking to?”
“Phil Needle.”
“Good, good, good. How are you, Needle?”
“I’m good.”
“I’m hoping so. Needle, Roger Cuff let me down.”
Roger Cuff was another man in radio, with a long, shiny yacht he sailed into remote corners of the San Francisco Bay because, he once told Phil Needle in a whiskey whisper at an industry party, his twenty-three-year-old girlfriend liked to scream when he put it in her ass. He was another client of Leonard Steed’s and had an idea for a show Leonard Steed said he liked first best.
“He let you down?”
“Down like the blues,” Leonard Steed said with a staticky sigh. “You know his show idea, What’s on Your Min d ? I took a listen to the episode he finished and it’s a no-go.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“What’s wrong with it is that people are apparently thinking about nothing anyone wants to hear. I mean, he found some guy outside a hospital and had him talk for a full forty-five seconds about his wife who was probably going to die. Who wants that? I don’t want that. I want his wife to live, Needle.”
“Of course.”
“I thought a show that asked ordinary people to speak their minds would feel outlaw, you know?”
“Absolutely.”
“And I placed so much confidence in Roger Cuff that I only listened to the show on the way out here, and now I’m out here, Needle, and I can’t give them this. And so I called you because I know you have ideas.”
“ Yes, I have ideas.” In Phil Needle’s jumpy mind’s eye he saw Cuff’s yacht splitting in half as his ship sailed forward through the foam, Cuff, panicked and desperate, gripping one half of the boat, the girlfriend wet and frantic on the other half. Only time to rescue one of you.
“That’s what I figured, Needle. That’s why I co-produce your shows and why I took you on as a consulting client. Not a lot of people understand this business. It’s not like how it was when I graduated Harvard. Everything’s a dying art now.”
“Don’t get that way, Leonard.” This was a scene they played about once a week, Leonard Steed the despairing king, Phil Needle the inspiring young ruffian. “I just finished my episode today.”
“This thing you won’t tell me about?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Sure, but it’s a show I want?”
“I think so.”
“Don’t think so . Answer me. Is it a show I want?”
“Yes.”
“A good yarn?”
“Yes.”
“A rich spoil?”
“Absolutely?”
“It has that energy?”
“Yes.”
“That
“Phil Needle Productions. Yes, may I ask who—yes. Hey, I thought it was you. How are you? Yes. Yes. Me too. Okay. Yes, he’s right here.” She stopped giggling and put the phone to her chest. “It’s Leonard Steed.”
Leonard Steed! Phil Needle talked to him every day and still it was like electric pants just hearing the name. “I’ll take it, of course,” said frantic Phil Needle. “In my office. Put him on hold.” Phil Needle ran a hand through his kempt hair and twitched his way back down the hall, past the plant they never moved. Why didn’t they? Why didn’t they? Why didn’t they move the plant to the window like he had once said? “Leonard,” he said, shutting his door with his foot, but he’d pressed the wrong button and tried again. “Steed, how are you?”
Leonard Steed was the somethingth-richest man in the country or the world. He was rotten rich. He lived in a house as big as a house, to which Phil Needle would never be invited, despite several promises of future invitations. He had long hair on the back of his head and no hair in front, just a huge round space over his calm, pretty eyes, where he did his thinking, and long shirts half-unbuttoned that always seemed to be blowing in the wind. He was an outlaw and a rapscallion, a fortune finder and a problem solver, and Phil Needle was very lucky to know him, although Leonard Steed had told him once that all luck was skill.
“Who am I talking to?”
“Phil Needle.”
“Good, good, good. How are you, Needle?”
“I’m good.”
“I’m hoping so. Needle, Roger Cuff let me down.”
Roger Cuff was another man in radio, with a long, shiny yacht he sailed into remote corners of the San Francisco Bay because, he once told Phil Needle in a whiskey whisper at an industry party, his twenty-three-year-old girlfriend liked to scream when he put it in her ass. He was another client of Leonard Steed’s and had an idea for a show Leonard Steed said he liked first best.
“He let you down?”
“Down like the blues,” Leonard Steed said with a staticky sigh. “You know his show idea, What’s on Your Min d ? I took a listen to the episode he finished and it’s a no-go.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“What’s wrong with it is that people are apparently thinking about nothing anyone wants to hear. I mean, he found some guy outside a hospital and had him talk for a full forty-five seconds about his wife who was probably going to die. Who wants that? I don’t want that. I want his wife to live, Needle.”
“Of course.”
“I thought a show that asked ordinary people to speak their minds would feel outlaw, you know?”
“Absolutely.”
“And I placed so much confidence in Roger Cuff that I only listened to the show on the way out here, and now I’m out here, Needle, and I can’t give them this. And so I called you because I know you have ideas.”
“ Yes, I have ideas.” In Phil Needle’s jumpy mind’s eye he saw Cuff’s yacht splitting in half as his ship sailed forward through the foam, Cuff, panicked and desperate, gripping one half of the boat, the girlfriend wet and frantic on the other half. Only time to rescue one of you.
“That’s what I figured, Needle. That’s why I co-produce your shows and why I took you on as a consulting client. Not a lot of people understand this business. It’s not like how it was when I graduated Harvard. Everything’s a dying art now.”
“Don’t get that way, Leonard.” This was a scene they played about once a week, Leonard Steed the despairing king, Phil Needle the inspiring young ruffian. “I just finished my episode today.”
“This thing you won’t tell me about?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Sure, but it’s a show I want?”
“I think so.”
“Don’t think so . Answer me. Is it a show I want?”
“Yes.”
“A good yarn?”
“Yes.”
“A rich spoil?”
“Absolutely?”
“It has that energy?”
“Yes.”
“That
Similar Books
