Syrup (17 page)

Cindy takes the car.

Which is fair enough, I guess, since if one of us has to be wandering the streets of West LA at midnight (and I’m pretty sure one of us does), it’s probably safer that it be the man in the suit than the woman in the body-hugging dress.

It takes me almost an hour to walk back along Wilshire to Cindy’s apartment in Santa Monica, waving at uninterested cabs all the while. On the way, I realize that I don’t have a set of keys, and I deliberate the merits of waking Cindy up to let me in versus spending the night on the street, not sure which is more dangerous. Eventually I ring the doorbell, but it’s a tough call.

“Yes?” Cindy says. Her voice is hard, as if she is expecting people seeking donations, or me.

“Uh, hi. Can I come in?”

There is a long pause before the security door buzzes. A long, relationship-reviewing pause.

When I get upstairs the door is ajar and all the lights are off. This is disturbing. “Cindy?”

I’m reaching for the light switch when she says, “Scat.”

I peer into the darkness and eventually spot her sitting upright on the sofa, silhouetted by the venetian blinds.

“Oh,” I say. “There you are.”

“Do you want to know your problem?” Cindy says.

I screw up my face, but she probably can’t see it, “Aw, Cindy—”

“Your problem is that reality isn’t good enough for you,” she says levelly. “You need a fantasy.”

“Cindy, that’s not true.”

“Yes it is,” she says. “I’m sorry, but it is. And right now I’m not your fantasy.”

I start to protest that she is a fantasy, then realize this might not be a good thing either and end up just standing there with my mouth open.

“I mean, I’m a
model.
Living with me should be enough of a fantasy for anyone. But no, you’re hooked on this girl who won’t even look at you straight.”

“Cindy—”

“So I’ve decided,” Cindy says abruptly. “If I’m your reality and you need a fantasy, I’m not going to be your reality anymore.”

I’m slow, but I get it. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“Why wait? For you to dump me?”

“Cindy,” I say, alarmed. “I’m not dumping anybody.”

“Well, I’m dumping you,” Cindy says. “Get out of my apartment.”

I reel against the door frame. “What—”

“You heard me!” she shouts.

“Cindy, it’s not even all your apartment. It’s partly mine.”

“Fifteen percent of it,” Cindy says scathingly. “Sure, your commission.
I
really earned that money.”

I gape.

“Go on!” she shouts. “I thought you liked it when girls treat you mean!”

Suddenly this whole scene begins to make sense. “Oh ... I get it.”

“What?”

“That’s very good. Those acting classes are really working.”

Cindy’s eyes widen. “You think I’m
acting?”

I hold up my hands. “Okay, look, you’ve made your point. Now can we talk about this in bed? I’m really beat. I actually had to walk back from—”

Cindy rises from the sofa like a guided missile.

“Uh—”

She punches me hard in the jaw, eight months of weight training behind her, and spills me out into the hallway. Before I can pick myself off the floor, she slams the apartment door so hard the entire stairwell shudders.

I look at the closed door for a long time. Then, slowly, I get to my feet, and that’s when I realize that there’s an old man across the hallway peering at me through his chain lock.

“I don’t think she was acting,” he tells me. He looks at Cindy’s closed door, then back at me. “I don’t think she was acting at all.”

This time, Cindy doesn’t even throw down my stuff.

I spend the night on the stairs of Cindy’s apartment complex.

I’m so exhausted that I wake at nine the next morning only when an old woman steps on my hand. I almost grab her leg and send her tumbling to the floor out of pure reflex, and when she shoots me a contemptuous look and no apology, I almost do it deliberately.

I take a few moments to stretch the stiffness out of my limbs, then climb the stairs to Cindy’s apartment. I take a deep breath and knock. I’m not completely sure how serious Cindy was last night—or, more important, how serious she is this morning. But there’s only one way to find out.

Cindy takes a long time to answer, and when she does she’s wearing only a thin dressing gown. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” I say, pretty happy with the way this conversation has opened. I had suspected I might have to conduct it through the closed door. “Cindy, I’m really sorry about last night—”

“And good-bye,” she says sweetly, gently closing the door in my face. I stare at it for a second, but it’s still a closed door.

So I guess Cindy is serious.

Obviously, it would be wrong to call 6.

First, it would be wrong because that’s exactly what Cindy said I was going to do: call 6 and try to move in with her. Proving her right on this point might suggest she is also right about her more recent theories.

Second, I’ve only just met 6 again. She’s going to think I do this kind of thing on a regular basis. And while the desperate, homeless image might be cute for a while, I don’t think it’s a good image to cultivate in the long term. Because in the end, gorgeous, independent women like 6 don’t go for desperate, homeless types. No, I’m pretty sure that intriguing, unmanning, devastatingly beautiful women like 6—

I call 6.

She answers the phone herself, further confirming my suspicions that her consulting firm is a one-woman shop. “Synergy.”

“6!” I say warmly. I’m sitting on a park bench with my cellphone, which is now my largest asset in the world. “It’s Scat. How are you?”

“How was Brennan?”

“Ah,” I say. “Well, I haven’t actually called him yet. I’ve hit a small snag.”

There is a pause. “A snag,” 6 says heavily.

“Ah, yeah.” I throw in a little chuckle, to show 6 that really, this is quite amusing. “You won’t believe what’s happened.” I leave a pause, wide open for 6 to fill with a
Really?
or an
Uh-huh
or even an
I sincerely doubt that,
but she just waits. “I’m homeless.”

Pause.

“It’s crazy, I know.” I laugh at exactly how crazy it really is. A girl walking a German shepherd glances at me warily. “But—”

“Don’t even bother. You’re not staying with me.”

“6,” I say, injecting a little hurt into my voice as I backpedal furiously. “I wasn’t going to ask
that.”

“Uh-huh,” 6 says, almost sounding interested.

“It’s just that if I call Gary and he wants to see us, I’ve got no clothes. I don’t even have anywhere to change into the clothes I don’t have.”

6 sighs. “Call Brennan. If he wants to see us, we’ll work something out.”

This isn’t a genuine offer, but I grab it anyway. “Hey, thanks, 6. I knew you’d come through.”

She hangs up.

I get put through to four different secretaries, but eventually I get Gary. “I’ve changed my mind.”

“Hey, Scat, I’m really glad,” Gary says. He sounds harried, and in the background I can hear someone yelling, “No,
players,
we need
players.”
“I could really use you. Can you see me today?”

“You bet,” I say, and when I hang up I call 6 to find out if this is true.

6 sighs.

“6, look,” I say. “I’m not asking for much. I just want to shower and get dressed. I’ll be in and out in half an hour.” My cellphone beeps twice, complaining about weak batteries. Given that Cindy has my charger, this is a real problem, and I start to panic. “6, come on, just let me visit, okay? I’ll buy some clothes, I’ll wash and shave, and we’ll go see Brennan. Then when this is all over, we can go back and do the whole bit where I beg you for favors and you frown and tell me you don’t think so. But right now, I just want a shower and I don’t have time for a debate! Okay?”

I stop, a little taken aback at my own aggressiveness. I am positive 6 is already putting down the phone, and I wince in anticipation of the tone.

“Okay,” 6 says, and although I could be mistaken, it sounds as if 6 is smiling.

She is the only employee.

Even so, I’m impressed by how well she’s established herself. The office is on Lincoln in central Venice and in dire need of refurbishment, but it has a kind of old-world charm that contrasts nicely with 6’s new-world complete lack of it. There are a few strategically placed ferns straining to cover horrific cracks in the plaster, a percolator and a huge wooden desk. It’s very similar to 6’s office at Coke, but with more cracks, no view and no Elle Macpherson. I suspect 6 misses Coke more than she is ever going to admit.

“Hey, I like this place. You’ve done well.”

6 shrugs fractionally, regarding me from behind the desk. Her chair is almost a throne: a hulking great black thing doing a pretty good imitation of leather. It allows 6 to lean right back into it, her arms resting commandingly on either side, making her look a little like Captain Kirk.

“Well.” I look at my watch. “I’d better get moving.”

“You can change in there,” 6 says, pointing to a shaky-looking wooden door. “There’s a shower.”

“Right.” I push through the door, carrying my new suit. I’m halfway through when I realize why this office has a shower: it’s not an office, it’s a tiny house. There are four rooms back here, and I’d bet my thin remaining credit card limit that one of them is 6’s bedroom. I turn back to ask her, but she reads my face and beats me to it.

“So?” she says aggressively.

“No problem,” I say, and close the door.

Since neither of us owns a car, I have a reluctant reunion with the LA bus system. The route actually takes us past Tina and 6’s old apartment, and without thinking I turn to her and say, “We had some times, huh?”

6’s head slowly turns toward me, and before I can even see her face I know she’s going to blast me with one of her looks.

“Forget it,” I say quickly.

I watch 6 carefully as we enter the lobby. She’s playing it very cool, and to the casual observer she probably appears to be fairly unconcerned about the whole deal of returning to her old workplace. But I’m not a casual observer. I’m a highly motivated, full-time observer, and I think 6 could be a little scared.

“Scat and 6,” I tell the receptionist, to spare 6 from having to do it. “To see Gary Brennan.”

The receptionist (who is possibly the same person as before but probably just another blandly good-looking woman) hands me a couple of visitor passes. With world-weary experience, I clip mine onto my tie, but 6 just stares at hers balefully and pockets it.

Mere minutes later, Gary springs from one of the elevators, smiling broadly and extending his hand. “Scat! So glad you could make it.” He pumps my hand three times fast. Then he spots 6. For a second, his grin slips down to his toes. Then it’s back up, flashing away as if 6’s presence is the greatest thing ever. “6! I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Is it a problem, Gary?” 6 says.

“Of course not,” he says, shaking her hand vigorously. “It’s good to have you back, 6.” He straightens. “Here, I’ve booked a meeting room.”

He leads us down a short hallway into a truly enormous room. I see 6’s eyebrows shoot up and guess that Gary is laying on something special today.

“Please, sit,” he says, dropping into one of the leather chairs. I follow suit and immediately decide I’m never going to stand again. “Or do you want a coffee?” He straightens, ready to leap up again. “I can have them sent in.”

“Uh,” I say, unsure as to whether it’s a good business move to ask your potential employer to fetch for you. I decide to go with my thirst. “Okay.”

Gary stops. “Scat, if you’re going to work for Coca-Cola, you will never use that word again.”

“What word?
‘Okay’?”

“Okay
is the most widely known word in the English language. Number two is
Coke.
We’re trying for top spot. Get it?”

“Got it,” I say, avoiding an embarrassing
okay
just in time.

“You need to know this stuff, since you’re going to be part of Coke history. And you are going to be part of history. You know that, don’t you?”

6 leans forward. “Gary, let’s cut the spiel, okay? I know you too well for the sales pitch. Just tell me what you’ve got.”

Gary pauses, then his smile drops. “Fine,” he says quietly, and leans forward. Despite myself, I lean forward too. It occurs to me that Gary’s overjovial opening may have been designed to precisely this end.

“Some of it you know already. We’re planning one of the biggest marketing projects in history. We’re doing something that’s never been done before.”

“Budget?” 6 asks.

Gary pauses. If it’s anything over ten million, I’m going to be impressed. Ten million buys you a series of cutting-edge TV ads and enough spots to show them to half the country.

“Sixty,” Gary says.

There is a long moment of silence. Somewhere around the start of it, I quietly swallow my tongue.

6 says, “Sixty
million?”

“Coca-Cola is funding sixty million,” Gary says, “but our partner in this venture is supplying another eighty. So I guess to answer your question, the project has a budget of one hundred forty million dollars.”

Suddenly I have to fight against the urge to laugh. But that would be a bad move, because Gary is obviously very, very serious.

“Gary,” I say unsteadily. “Pardon me, but what the fuck are you buying for one hundred forty million dollars?”