I’m Losing You Read Online Free PDF Page B

Hassan.”
    He warmly shook Simon’s hand before settling back onto the chair.
    â€œI went to the last
Matrix
convention. I didn’t feel great about spending forty dollars to get in—”
    â€œIt’s terrible,” he said, with real sympathy. “It’s a lot of money, I know.”
    â€œSome friends and I wound up counterfeiting passes.”
    â€œCounterfeit passes! That’s
marvelous
.”
    â€œWe have a kind of street-gang thing going. You know—hip-hop crypto-terrorists.” DeVore was baffled but charmed. “A little postmodern Yippiedom. It’s retro, but it keeps Big Brother away.”
    â€œHow old are you, Simon?”
    â€œThirty-five going on sixty-four going on twelve.”
    As DeVore burst into laughter, the cottage door opened, disgorging Laura Dern. Calliope loomed behind her. When she saw him there, the psychiatrist’s features hardened like ice around the fishing hole of her mouth.
    â€œLaura, this is Simon, my son.”
    â€œYou were so great in
Jurassic Park
,” said Simon.
    She thanked him, before exchanging exuberant, fraternal hellos with the waiting Vorbalid.
    â€œThe Jeff Goldblum character was my favorite,” simple Simon said. “The whole ‘chaos’ thing. But what I really want to ask about is
Rambling Rose
—”
    â€œIf you’d like an interview, you’ll have to call her publicist,” said his mother, moving between them like Secret Service ready to take a Big Star bullet. Laura made a quick and gracious goodbye. Hassan went into the office.
    â€œI am
furious
!” she shouted, steering Simon through the halls to the front door. “You are
never
to approach clients, you
know
better. This is a safe haven, not the tour at Universal! They come here to get
away
from that, do you understand?”
    â€œI’m sorry—”
    â€œ
Not good enough
. Jesus, look at you! You embarrassed me!”
    â€œYeah, I forgot my Armani.”
    â€œYou are
always
to call, I thought that was our
agreement
.” They paused at the chandeliered entrance while Calliope caught her breath. “You came from a job, didn’t you?”
    â€œThat’s me, Mom—Ace Ventura, Dead Pet Detective.”
    â€œWhy do you do this to me?”
    â€œShow business is my life.”
    â€œWhat is your delight, Simon?
Why?
”
    â€œI’m sorry, I’m sorry. Look, I’ll prostrate myself.” He kneeledbefore her, hoping to make her laugh, but she just glowered. “I’ll even
prostate
myself—only with a urologist present, of course.”
    She yanked him by the elbow like she did when he was a kid. “Get up!”
    â€œOh come on! What do you want me to do? Not be your son?”
    â€œRight now,” she said, “I want you to leave.”
    â€œIs that what you want me to do? Not be your son? Because that can be arranged!”
    She opened the door and pushed him out.
    The ignobled psychiatrist composed a mental sentence or two explaining to Mr. DeVore her son’s “history of problems,” but when she reached the cottage, she decided to let it be.

    That afternoon, Les Trott was accused of over-prescribing painkillers to Oberon Mall, the famous singer and actress. A bitch from the DEA dared visit while he was needling cow protein into Phylliss Wolfe’s nasolabial furrows. He made the woman wait in his office so she could stare awhile at the photos of bagged and framed Big (Star) Game: Les with international icons, royalty, H.I.V.I.P.s. When he came in, she got right to it, said a whole ring of abusing medicos were implicated. He didn’t believe her, but the piece of shit named names, and except for one, all of them were colleagues. The woman wanted to know why Oberon had a note in her purse written on one of Les’s prescription pads alerting ERs to her chronic migraine condition—a kind of backstage pass to the concert of