Syrup (32 page)

“Hey, now,” I say soothingly. “What’s going on here?”

“
You
, ” Kline says, his eyes bulging.

“Hack,” Tina spits at Kline. “It’s people like you that turn film into a commercial wastela—”

“Enough!” Kline roars. “We are finished for today!”

“Kline, please,” 6 says, but Kline pushes past her. “End for today ! Go home!”

To my horror, the crew and cast begin dissipating. “Wait!” I shout, but apparently I carry a lot less weight than Kline. The hangar empties and then it’s just me, 6 and a whole lot of silence.

6’s eyes are wide and staring. “No,” she whispers. “This cannot happen.” Her eyes search my face, seeking answers.

I try to find something to say. “I ... lost Visuality.”

6 unlocks Synergy and slowly walks inside. She’s really starting to scare me, so I put my arms around her and hug her tightly. She just stands there, as if I don’t even exist. “I love you,” I say hopefully, but I get no reaction.

I fix a quick and tasteless dinner while 6 sits in her Captain Kirk and stares at the wall. She hardly touches the meal, and I have to prompt her to get ready for bed.

When we’re under the sheets, I hug her and say firmly, “We are not going to lose. Tomorrow we can fix everything.” I really don’t know if this is true, but it’s important to say.

6 is silent. I hold her tight, trying to offer as much comfort as I can, and I can feel her trembling.

I dream that 6 and I are in a car together, some kind of convertible, driving out in the desert. 6 is smoking a cigar and throwing playing cards out the window, all Jacks, and every time I reach over to stop her, the car lurches across the road and startles the cacti, which, I notice, are drinking from cans of Fukk.

I’m leaning over for the umpteenth time when there’s a thump on the roof of the car and a hand punches clear through the vinyl and grabs my throat. I look up and see Sneaky Pete perched above me, grinning, his black shades glinting. “You lose,” he says.

I wrench the wheel and the car careens off the road, bumps over the sand and hits a cola-drinking cactus. Sneaky Pete is thrown clear and lands in a particularly thick bunch of cacti, which I realize are actually movie stars in cactus suits, and then he starts advancing on us. I tug at the door handle, but it’s jammed fast. Sneaky Pete gets closer, growing, towering above the vehicle, and, knowing that the end is near, I reach out for 6 so that in the final, despairing moments we can at least be together. She looks at my hand as if she doesn’t know what to do with it, and as Sneaky Pete tears the door from the car and reaches in for us, her brow furrows. “Actually,” she says, “only one of us has to lose.”

I wake and 6 is not in bed with me.

I ponder this development for a few minutes, long enough to establish that she isn’t just making a midnight toilet run. When I’m clear on this, I pull back the covers and get out of bed.

For some reason, I don’t turn on the light. And this doesn’t make sense, because I’m looking for 6 and the light would help me find her. The only reason I wouldn’t turn on the light would be if I wanted to sneak up on her. And I can’t think why I’d want to do that.

I open the bedroom door carefully, too, making sure it doesn’t creak. Again, I have no reason. I step out into the hallway and see from the light leaking under the office door that 6 is inside. I stand there for a moment, considering, and then I move up to the door.

I put my hand on the door and pause, listening. I can faintly hear 6 talking but can’t make out her words. For a moment I think she must be on the phone—maybe ordering a late-night pizza—then it clicks: 6 is talking to herself.

I turn the handle very, very carefully. A shaft of light springs from the crack, and suddenly I can see 6. She’s in her chair, staring at the desk. Her face is totally bleak.

“No,” she murmurs. “Obviously we were specifically entrusted with delivering the film. That won’t work.” She sighs, closing her eyes. “Which leaves... sacrificing Scat.”

I don’t know if I let the handle go on purpose or out of shock. But either way, the door slowly swings open.

6’s head jerks up. Her eyes are wide and shocked. She stares at me for a long moment, and I stare back at her.

“Scat,” she says, and her voice is low and earnest, “I love you so much.”

I leave, then.

It’s raining outside: the type of annoying drizzle that keeps LA cab companies in business. Although I’ve got my Coca-Cola credit card, I stalk along on foot and steadily soak through my jeans and sweater.

It takes me an hour to work out where I’m going.

“Scat!” Cindy says through the speaker. “Is that really you?”

“Yes,” I say. “It’s really me.”

The door buzzes and I push it open. Cindy meets me halfway down the stairs, wearing, I notice, the same cotton dressing gown as the morning she shut me out. “You’re soaked
through,
you poor thing.” She wraps her thin arms around me endearingly. “Come up and get out of those wet things.”

“Okay,” I say.

Cindy still has all my old clothes in a cardboard box, and while I towel off in the bathroom, she selects a few of my favorites and leaves them outside the door. By the time I’m dressed and snuggled up in front of the living room heater, it feels like I never left this place.

I tell Cindy why I was wandering the streets at one in the morning, and she responds appropriately. “I
knew
6 was trouble. I’m sorry, Scat, but she’s just wrong for you. Everyone can see that but you.”

“I know.”

“She’s just using you,” Cindy says, shifting a little closer to me on the sofa. “She can’t see past the needs of her own ego.”

“I know,” I say again.

“You need someone
giving,”
Cindy tells me earnestly. “The exact
opposite
of 6.”

I turn to her. “Someone like you?”

“Well,” she says, looking down. Maybe she’s a little embarrassed, but I think mostly she’s pleased. “I was always there for you, Scat. You know that.”

I stare at the heater again. “You said I was no good for you.”

“Well . . .” She loops her arm around mine. “You have your flaws.” She smiles. “Sometimes you get a little self-obsessed. You can have trouble seeing past—” She stops.

“Seeing past my own ego?” My eyes narrow. “Like 6?”

“No,” Cindy says firmly. “Not like 6. Scat, you’re nothing like 6.”

“Maybe I am,” I say, despairing.

“Scat, look at me.” She takes my face in both hands and physically turns my head. She
has
been working out. “You are a good person. I believe you have a good heart.”

“Then why did you kick me out? Unless I was—”

“I realize now that I need to accept you for who you are,” she tells me. She sounds so sure of herself that I can’t help but wonder if this is rehearsed. “If you didn’t do stupid things sometimes, you wouldn’t be Scat.”

I stare at her. “And if 6 wasn’t ruthless, she wouldn’t be 6.”

Cindy’s smile drops about ten floors. “Scat, that’s completely different.”

“How?”

For a moment Cindy just stares at me. Then she laughs. “You know what this is? This is like a movie, where the hero is chasing this elusive, fantasy girl. And the whole time, the girl he
really
belongs with is right there with him, being his friend, supporting him when he needs it. Only he doesn’t realize, until right at the end, when they finally get together.”

“I can’t believe you’re using
movie
logic,” I say.

“Scat,” Cindy says, exasperated. “Look at what’s happened to you since you left. You’re two days away from being fired at Coke. The girl you moved in with has betrayed you.” She looks deeply into my eyes. “This is not a healthy lifestyle.”

“Hmf,” I say.

“You can move back in with me,” she offers gently. “Leave 6 and Coke behind. It’ll be just like it used to be.” Her eyes implore me. “My career could really use your help. And... so could I.”

And, strangely, it sounds tempting. It sounds really tempting. Could I just step out of all this? I think maybe I could. At worst, Coke would sue me, but unless they’re willing to accept my underwear as damages, they might as well not bother. I actually think it can be done: I can just walk away from all this, from Sneaky Pete and 6 and Jamieson and meetings in strip bars, and go back to managing Cindy’s modeling career. I’d even be good at it.

Of course, I’d never work in marketing again. I’d never rub shoulders with film stars. And I’d never be famous.

“No,” I say.

“Oh,” Cindy says. “Oh, I see. Nothing’s changed. You’re exactly the same.” She pulls her arm away from me, climbing to her feet.

“Cindy,” I say, “I just can’t. It’s not who I am.”

“Sure,” she says, slightly hysterical. “Who you are. Of course. Don’t let me get in the way of your almighty goddamned quest to find yourself, or whatever the fuck it is.”

I blink. “What happened to accepting me as I am?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Cindy says.

“Cindy—” I start, but then her buzzer sounds. We both stare at it for a second.

“Oh, this is just great,” Cindy says.

“Do you, uh, want me to get that?”

“Why not?” she says, really starting to steam up now. “Since we both know who it is.”

“Are you sure?” I say, and I think I’m actually biting my lip.

“Sure,” Cindy says. Her arms are swinging dangerously. “Why don’t you invite her upstairs and I’ll just wait quietly in the kitchen while you two—”

“I’ll meet her downstairs,” I say quickly.

“You worthless
shit!”
Cindy yells.

I practically run out the door, shutting it hard behind me. Across the hall, the same old man who saw Cindy send me sprawling a few weeks ago is peering around his door. “Hi,” I say. He doesn’t react. I run down the stairs to where 6 is waiting in the rain.

The skies have opened up and 6, standing on the street in her red pajamas, is soaked through. She peers through the glass door at me, her hair hanging in thick, bedraggled locks, and she is absolutely gorgeous. She’s not wearing makeup, her hair is a disaster and she isn’t dressed, and she’s just beautiful.

I open the door but she doesn’t move. She just stands there as the rain dumps down and looks at me.

“Come in,” I say. “Come out of the rain.”

She shakes her head, biting her lip.

“Fine,” I say, and step out onto the street.

The door closes behind me, stranding us in the downpour, but I hardly notice. I only notice 6.

“I’m sorry,” she says. Although it’s hard to tell, I think there are tears mixed with the rain on her face. “I’m sorry, Scat.”

I consider. “Are you?”

She turns away, and for a second I think she’s going to run away. Then, so quietly I hardly hear her over the rain, she says, “Yes.” She turns back to me. “I don’t want to hurt you.” She takes a step closer, her eyes searching my face. “But I can’t lose now, Scat. I’ve worked too hard to get to this point to lose now.”

I nod. “I know.”

We stare at each other. And I just can’t help but wonder: Is this real? If 6 needs my trust so she can sell me out, could this be an act? It’s a cold, heartless thought, but I’ve been around 6 too long to avoid it.

She looks down at the road for a second, then up at me. “Am I too late for you, Scat?” Her face is pure misery. “Am I?”

“Come here,” I say, and she does; she practically falls into my arms. We hug tightly: two wet, soggy bodies clinging to each other. “I love you.”

“Yes.”

I have to ask. “Do you love me?”

“I—” 6 says. “I—really—” She buries her face in my shoulder.

It’s enough for me. It’s real.

“So,” I say. It’s four in the morning. The light from 6’s Barbie lamp plays across her face. “Are we going to finish this damn film?”

She regards me across the bed. “Oh yes.”