And Sons by David Gilbert Page A

was.
    “Um, Norman Peltzer,” Richard said.
    “Who the fuck is that?”
    “Head of the Norman Peltzer Agency,” Richard said.
    “Of course he is,” Rainer said. “Maybe we could hook you up with someone we know. Maybe Koons at CAA. He might be a good fit. Or Vartan at UTA.”
    Curtis took the note.
    “Koons is really fucking good,” Eric told Richard, his feet keeping a bass drum beat. “You can trust him a hundred percent, well actually ninety percent, the other ten going into his own pocket.” It was beyond bizarre to have this celebrity suddenly play the role of confidant; Rainer and Curtis struck Richard as dubious, with their high-gloss professionalism, but Eric Harke was different, Eric Harke was endearing, which was probably a function of his skill as an actor, the way he could come across as likable, but Richard guessed he was responding to something else, judging by the manic exuberance and the chorus of facial tics and those baby blues with the chewy center: Eric Harke was definitely coked up. Richard figured he had had a pick-me-up beforethe meeting—snort left, snort right, and in we go, the hologram of a secure young man. “But Vartan’s your guy if you’re looking for someone to take your phone calls and show you around town, if you want some of that old-fashioned agent cheese.”
    Rainer requested champagne via phone. “Hope I’m not being presumptuous,” he told the group. “More than anything, I like the ceremony.”
    “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,” Eric agreed, nodding to his new best friend. “Absolutely we should celebrate. We should all go to my house for dinner tonight and we can really celebrate and discuss the project. I could even call Donal Fenster because I know he’d be interested and we can brainstorm and just fuck around. You married, Richard? Well, bring the wife. Bring the kids. I have a huge fucking pool, a basketball court. You play? Do you bowl? I got every shoe size imaginable. Bring everyone, hell, bring the family dog. The goldfish, the hamsters. We’ll barbecue. Not your fucking pets I promise. I’ve got prime rib you can’t believe.”
    “Fenster’s interested?” Rainer asked.
    Donal Fenster was the young director recently robbed of an Academy Award.
    “He could be. We’re desperate to work together again. You know,” Eric turned to Richard and said without pretense or pause, “I know people, I mean, I know Rainer knows people, but I know people, and people want to know me, that’s just the way it is, no matter how shallow, presidents, dictators, holy men, billionaires, they want to know me, ridiculous, I know, not my value system, but they hear my name and they get interested. It’s a weird kind of power, I tell you, and it’s not like I can ever hide and be Clark Kent or Bruce Wayne, no, no, no, I’m always wearing the fucking cape, which is exhausting, but if I’m in your movie—and I’m seriously considering it, Richard, like seriously—but if I’m in your movie, you can land a healthy budget and book some hard-core talent and schedule a start date for July, like this July, man, and movies are hard, hard to get made and getting harder by the minute. How amazing would that be, the two of us working together during the summer on a big old film written by you and starring me, Imean just plain old straight-up cool.” Eric Harke spoke as if the last ten minutes equaled their lifelong dream.
    Richard sat back in his seat. The force of future success started to slam into the humble present, and years later, during those times when he replayed this meeting in his head, he would wonder if his initial reaction somehow dictated all that followed, since his first active thought was, Now I can go back to New York and shove this in my father’s face. Did that impulse trigger what happened? If instead he had thought about his wife and children, of sharing the good news with them, would things have turned out differently? Who knows? But maybe thoughts, their