Larry Mersault haunts the city in his Chrysler LeBaron convertible like the Flying Dutchman, squeezing the lemon at every traffic light, running stop signs as if braking would cause his heart to cease beating; asking himself, at what point did his life go sideways?
(Maybe it was that time Arthur Livingstone called his office: “Stop playing hide the Nazi with my daughter. Crush her heart so Libra will never see you again. I need you to read a script for me.”)
Where would he be tonight if he had continued driving around sex workers after film school for that criminal who rented a photography studio on Ventura and Tujunga? Would he have ended up running the escort service? Mersault flashes on the entertainment delivery boss of Sunset Strip. What was the name of that ruthless pimp?
(Malice!)
The empire of whores had a frightening vice-president of dominoes. What was the name of that illiterate football player who played one season for the Raiders before the linebacker fractured his vertebrae?
(Roemello!)
God’s lonely reader takes Fountain, left on Highland, curving into La Brea, green lights passing over his head, Venice, Jefferson, right on Stocker, left on La Cienega, signs appearing for LAX, right on La Tijera, passing the Chuck E. Cheese’s, Wing Stop, and Harriet’s Soul Cuisine displaying the dreaded “C” rating from the sanitation department.
(Driving up Bronson Canyon, a hundred yards from Larry’s newly acquired house in the hills, Arthur Livingstone’s daughter texts her boyfriend of two months:
Libra: I can’t wait to suck your dick
Arriving at his one-bedroom house on Tuxedo Terrace, Libra finds the front door open—
“Larry?”
No response. Letting herself in, Libra surveys the empty first floor, fifty-inch TV blasting ESPN. She climbs the stairs toward his deserted bedroom, hears water running, enters the steamy bathroom, removes her clothes and steps into the frosted glass encased shower—
The water spray doesn’t stop. Neither does Mersault and the black chick he’s taking from behind.
“Close the door,” says Mersault, mid-thrust.
Libra collects her clothes; runs out of the bathroom; out of the house; out of his life.
“You’re an icicle,” says the escort from Sunset Strip.
“You should meet her old man.”)
The Chrysler LeBaron veers away from the airport where a Southwest Airlines ticket attendant checks in an African-American grandmother traveling on his 8:55 p.m. flight to watch her grandson play his first game at the point guard position for New Mexico State.
Right on Sepulveda, taking Lincoln Boulevard, past LMU, where Mersault taught a one-time only master class on script coverage that ended up being viewed 89,164 times on YouTube; passing Bali Way, where two roommate hookers took turns rocking his world for a year after Libra.
California Incline to PCH, no traffic at all, push the speedometer to ninety-five miles an hour, take Topanga to the 101 South, exit Van Nuys Boulevard straight to Bob’s Classy Lady, pull into the parking lot, which Mersault now sees is full; the Asian bouncer in a black Regis outfit says park on the street but the reader keeps going, back on the freeway, toward the 15 East.
Decision time: head home via the 101 or Billy Wilder Boulevard? Mersault decides to fill up his tank at the next 76 station. He’s got a long road ahead of him tonight; he’s going to take his talents to Taos, where he’ll arrive on set long after the Jonesy shot.