The Man Who Cancelled Himself by David Handler

here.” He glanced around the office. “Where’s Bobby?”
    “Not here yet,” replied Annabelle, cowering. The man clearly terrified her.
    He turned back to The Boys, who were glaring at him. He softened. “Now, guys, you gotta be reasonable. That’s all I’m asking. Agents, they make it about money. They make it about threats. He even said you guys were gonna walk out on me. Christ, if you did that I’d die. I need you. We’re not about money. We’re about doing what we love doing, with people we care about. What do we need agents for, huh? Let’s us settle this thing between ourselves, like family, okay? Whattaya say?”
    “We say no, Lyle,” Marty replied, quietly but firmly. “We are not going to negotiate our contract with you. That’s why we have an agent. You’ll have to go through him.”
    “I refuse!” Lyle bellowed. “I won’t talk to him! I won’t! I’ll fire you if it comes to that! You hear me?! I’ll fire you!”
    “You can’t fire us, Lyle,” Tommy said scornfully.
    “I can, too!” screamed Lyle. “I don’t need you hacks! I’ve never needed you!”
    “You can’t fire us!” Tommy repeated.
    “We quit!” screamed Marty.
    “Bullshit!” yelled Lyle. “You don’t have the nerve!”
    The Boys sat there in tight-lipped silence a moment.
    “All right, we’ll listen,” Marty allowed grimly. “But we’re saying nothing, and we’re agreeing to nothing.”
    “Totally cool,” said Lyle. “That’s all I ask.”
    Annabelle made for the door. Lulu and I joined her. I did not slam it behind me.
    Outside, all was quiet. Everyone in the production office was staring at us, examining our faces for a clue as to what was going on in there. Particularly the occupants of the two desks in the alcove outside of Lyle and Katrina’s offices. Naomi Leight, Annabelle’s designated babe-in-waiting, sat at one, sneaky eyes gleaming. At the other sat a woman in her fifties with close-cropped silver hair and olive bags under her eyes. She got up and came charging right at me, clutching a handful of papers. She was a bunched fist of a woman, in a gray gymnasium T-shirt and fatigue pants. She had a pair of glasses on a chain around her neck. Stuck behind her right ear was a Sherman, one of those dark brown cigarettes that come in the red box.
    “Stewart Stafford Hoag,” she boomed in a deep, authoritative voice. “Do you wish to get paid at any time in the near future?”
    “It would be nice,” I replied.
    Somehow, she seemed to be looking down her nose at me, even though I had a solid ten inches on her. I guess it was her manner, something of a cross between a women’s prison guard and David Frye doing Bill Buckley. She moistened her thin, dry lips. “Then would you like to sign your payroll forms?” she demanded.
    “By all means.”
    We went to my office. Lulu was already there, curled up under my desk.
    “I’m Leo Crimp, your line producer,” she announced gruffly. “You got a question, you come to me. You got a complaint about the P.A.’s, you come to me. You got a problem with Lyle, you don’t come to me—but you will anyway.”
    I sat at my desk. “I was expecting a man—from the name.”
    “Leo’s short for Leona,” she growled impatiently. “But if by that you mean you were expecting somebody with balls, you got somebody with balls.”
    “I’ll remember that.”
    “No problem if you don’t. I’ll remind you.”
    Leo laid the payroll forms out on my desk and offered me her Bic pen. I used my gold-nibbed Waterman. I’ve found that true luxury is found in the little things, not the big ones. Especially when you can no longer afford the big ones. When I was done Leo snatched the forms back from me. She tried to take my Waterman, too, but I was too fast for her.
    “You’ve joined the Writers’ Guild, correct?” she asked.
    “Correct.”
    “Good. Remember—they’re the only protection you got”
    “From what?”
    “Not what,” she snapped. “Who. Lyle,