Steven Bochco by Death by Hollywood Page B

dumped him, and I fired him the same day.
    In retrospect, I’ve come to believe I was piling on, so when Bobby called me sounding so genuinely optimistic about himself, I was more than happy to let us both off the hook, which is how I came to be his date at the party after the premiere of the Tom Hanks movie, which Bobby really had done some first-rate work on.
    So Bobby and I are standing in line waiting to get a drink at one of the bars when he spots Linda Paulson in the company of her husband, Marv. “Linda,” Bobby shouts over the din.
    She sees Bobby and smiles, not because she recognizes him—she doesn’t—and not necessarily because Bobby’s a good-looking guy, though he is. She smiles because when you’re wandering around a two-acre tent filled with a thousand milling people (the stars, producers, director, and studio executives all have reserved seating; the rest of us basically suck hind tit) and you look like Linda Paulson (spectacular) and you’re holding the fat, sweaty hand of a guy who looks like Marv (porcine), any potential distraction is worth an exploratory smile.
    Dragging Marv over, she gives Bobby a big “Hi” and a kiss on the cheek, and Bobby—no stranger to the intricacies of introducing yourself to someone you don’t know or who doesn’t know you—says, “You look great,” and immediately sticks his hand out to Marv.
    â€œHi, Marv, Bobby Newman. I wrote this movie. Our wives took an acting class together.”
    Brilliant. Think about it. For openers, he’s telling her his name without acknowledging she didn’t know it in the first place (“Hi, Marv, Bobby Newman”). But he’s also identifying himself as someone with legitimate credentials, with enough stature to warrant talking to (“I wrote this movie”). Then he disarms her husband’s natural suspicion of any man his wife smiles at by identifying himself as a married man whose only claim to a casual acquaintance with Linda is through his own wife (“Our wives took an acting class together”). The particular brilliance of that gambit is that Marv instantly loses interest in Bobby, and by the time he’s introduced me to both of them, old Marv’s looking around for someone more interesting to talk to.
    Spotting a poker crony in the company of two prostitutes, Marv tells Linda to stay in line and get him a drink. “Nice to meet ya, fellas,” and he’s gone, a fat, white predator heading into deeper waters, with no natural enemies in sight.
    â€œHow’s your wife?” Linda asks, having no idea who she’s asking about.
    â€œVee? She’s great,” Bobby says, and now Linda has a name with which to recollect a face.
    â€œIs she here?”
    Bobby says, “I haven’t seen her, but if she is, it’s not with me.” Which is the last piece of the puzzle artfully presented, letting Linda know that Bobby’s a player.
    Within two minutes, I’ve become about as useful to this conversation as tits on a bull.
    â€œI really liked the movie,” Linda says by way of complimenting Bobby on his work. “I know I should know, but what other movies have you written?”
    Bobby scrolls his credits, which are numerous and impressive, and Linda knows they’re legit as well, because if they weren’t, Bobby wouldn’t be running them for her in front of his agent.
    Next thing, Bobby says, “Isn’t it tragic about Ramon?” and Linda manages to get a little wet-eyed, telling Bobby how stunned and saddened she was when she heard the news. Bobby asks if she’s spoken to the cops yet, and she allows as she has, given they’re interviewing anyone who ever took his class.
    â€œThey’ve probably talked to your wife, too.”
    â€œIf they have, I wouldn’t know it,” Bobby says. “In fact, Vee left me the day Ramon was murdered.” In other words,