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catching,” and he went, “What’s that?”
    She smiled, said, “I said I’m from back east, but thanks for asking.”
    Was he detecting sarcasm? The woman, Brandi Love, was an actress, of course. He’d met her a few nights ago at some party when she’d spilled a drink on his lap and said, “Allow me to wipe you off.”
    He liked how she’d delivered the line—sexy, yeah, but sincere.
    She was Larry’s type—not too old, with a big, high rack—so he gave her his usual BS about how he was a “top producer” and needed an executive assistant “to help out at the office,” and then he promised her a role in a hot new project,
Spaced Out
, which—bullshit flying now—was “set up at Fox.”
    As usual, the dumb wannabe had bought all of that crap.
    “You can go home early today,” Larry said, “and you don’t have to come back tomorrow. No offense, but I don’t think this arrangement is working out.”
    “No worries,” Brandi muttered. “I’ll just poison you.”
    “What’s that?” Larry asked.
    “I said it was a pleasure working for you,” she said, smiling.
    Larry shook his head, thinking,
Psycho actress in L.A.; big surprise there, right?
She was probably addicted to yoga, in A.A., had stalked all of her exes. He sat at his desk, tried to log onto his PC. Shit, these damn machines. He knew how to send email and do that video chat shit, what was it called? Hyping? Yeah hyping, he was great at hyping, but how the hell did you turn the thing on?
    “Shit,” he said. “Goddamnit. Fuck. Fuck the hell outta me.”
    “Need some help?” Brandi, at the door, asked.
    “No, it’s okay.” He pressed something; nothing happened. “Goddamn piece of shit.”
    “You seem a wee stressed,” Brandi said.
    There was that lilt again.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Stress, anxiety,” she said. “After all, most ED is caused by stress. I mean, I’m sure you don’t have a physical problem.”
    “Whoa, whoa, look here, sweetie.” Larry smiled with his new dentures. “Let’s make one thing clear, I don’t have any problems in that department. The L-Rod goes to the top floor if you get my drift.”
    “It’s on the right.”
    “What?”
    “The switch. It’s right there on the right.”
    Larry pressed the button—shit, it was right there the whole time—and the computer booted up.
    “Thanks,” Larry said, “normally I don’t have a problem turning it on.”
    “Are we talking about the computer or your cock?”
    She said it matter-of-factly, really asking. The kid had spunk; he’d give her that.
    “Computer,” he said.
    “Thought so,” she said.
    Wait, was this all a put-on? Larry was usually great at reading people—it was how he’d gotten to where he was in this biz—but with this chick it was impossible to tell.
    “It’s because of my profession,” he said. “When you’re a big-time producer, it’s hard to be—what’s the word I’m thinking of—attentive to detail. That’s not a word, but you get my point, sweetie. I’m always producing, twenty-four/seven, plotting in my head.”
    “Right, because you’re feeling so creative today.”
    “Exactly,” Larry said. “Exactly.”
    “Well, I should be going,” she said.
    “Wait,” Larry said, like Travolta’s character would have said in
Spaced Out
.
Wait
, when the alien’s about to leave the spaceship, after they have their falling out in act three.
    Brandi, like the alien, turned back.
    “You seem like a good kid,” Larry said. “Got more brain on you then most of the girls I usually hire. Anyway, I’m sorry for being a prick. I’m usually not such a prick.”
    “Oh, I’m not sure that’s not entirely untrue,” she said, smiling.
    Larry smiled with her though he didn’t know what she’d just said.
    Then he said, “And, yeah, you’re right I am kind of stressed out today.”
    “What’s stressing you, baby?”
    Jeez, now she was a combo Dr. Phil and his shrink. Two hundred bucks a week and where had it gotten