Faking Life (19 page)

“Fair amount?” Artie roared, as if insulted by the notion. “We're the biggest draw on the block. And our clientele is young which means they'll keep coming back.” Nico nodded and played with his watch band.

“But do you have any plans for the future? Surely you must have a vision, somewhere you see the franchise going in the next five or ten years.”

“The franchise? Well…” The waiter arrived with two cups of steaming coffee. Artie poured in three packets of sugar, added a heaping of milk, and Nico did the same. He grimaced as he took a sip. He normally took it black.

“Sounds like you've at least given it some thought.”

“You know, I
was
thinking,” Artie said, “I'd love to open up a chain of Slappy's. Maybe start on the Upper East Side, go for an uptown Hogs and Heffers kind of crowd. I hear Murray Hill's pretty popular with the kids.”

“Do you think it's possible?”

“Who knows?” Artie said, gulping down half his coffee. “If you'd asked me five years ago whether I'd still be in business today, I probably would've laughed in your face. But then that guy came and put his hand on that girl's ass, next thing I know I'm being interviewed by the
Daily News
and I need a velvet rope outside to keep order. Who would've thought, you know?” Nico nodded and tented his fingers.

“Sometimes lightning strikes twice. I wouldn't bet against it.” Nico could sense Artie was waiting for an explanation, but he meekly sipped his coffee and remained silent. When the food arrived, Nico tore into his BLT. Greasy, but not inedible. Fresh lettuce. Better than the soggy leaves the neighborhood takeout places delivered. Finally, after Nico finished half his sandwich, Artie spoke.

“I know you wanted to talk about John Gillis, you mentioned that in your phone call. Frankly, it didn't surprise me. The kid's been acting real weird lately and I thought he might be up to something. But to be honest, I haven't been able to figure out what his business is with a, what do you do again? Agent, right?”

“Literary Agent. I represent authors.”

“Authors, huh? So what's that got to do with John? He mess with one of your writers? Owe 'im money or something?” Nico laughed. After a moment, Artie joined in.

“No, nothing like that Arthur. Actually John Gillis has been writing a book which I'll be representing.”

Artie snorted a laugh. A shred of lettuce flew from his mouth onto Nico's plate. “A book? You're shitting me right? The guy's a bartender, what's he know about books?”

“More than you'd think,” Nico said. “Actually that's one of the reasons I wanted to meet. You see we need to kind of…spur his imagination, give him a shock to the system. We need to get his creative juices flowing in a different direction. You need to send him a message that things won't be the same.” Artie shook his head.

“I don't follow.”

Nico continued. “Start him on a new shift, throw a few obstacles in his path. See how he reacts. Give him a new dress code, alter his perspective a bit.”

“I already tell him to look good.” Nico smiled demurely and shook his head.

“I mean a
different
kind of dress code.” Artie looked offended. Nico leaned in, lowering his voice an octave. “Bottom line Arthur, I want you to make John Gillis quit.” Artie looked at Nico for a moment, unsure whether he was serious, then burst out laughing. When he calmed down, Nico wiped a half-chewed piece of bread off his plate.

“Why the hell would I do that? Gillis is my best tender. The girls dig him and the guys aren't put off like they are with a lot of other servers. He's worth at least another five hundred in drinks every weekend. You don't mess with money in the bank.”

Nico was hoping Artie would bring up money. As an agent, it was Nico's job to understand people's basic desires, their needs. He knew what people wanted, and how to give it them. Naysayers called agents glorified middlemen, comparing their commission to a brokerage fee. Nico laughed at this notion, wishing those simpletons could watch him work. He knew if they ever walked a mile in his shoes, they'd fall flat on their faces.

“You're not screwing with anything Arthur,” he said, placing his hand on the table, barely an inch away from Artie's. Artie flinched but his hand remained bolted down. “But right now you're thinking about the short term impact, when you should be thinking about the future. I need more from John Gillis than what he's giving me. I need him to
rebel
. I want him to get so pissed off that he'd rather be unemployed than take your shit. If everything works the way I think it will, that short-term investment will pay dividends for your franchise that'll put any bank to shame.”

“My franchise?”

Nico looked straight into Artie's eyes. They were hopeful, longing, waiting for a prophecy he could rest his dreams on.

“Yes, franchise. Maybe an institution. A landmark.
Cheers
isn't just a bar, Artie, it's an
attraction
. You don't go to
Cheers
to have a drink and watch the Red Sox lose. You go so you can tell your friends you were sat where Norm and Cliff did.
That's
the kind of bar you can own, Arthur. All you need is a spark. You already had one, but that was blind luck. Right now, you need to create your own.” Artie frowned, displeased that Nico didn't consider his burgeoning business the result of his own hard work. Nico predicted that would be his initial reaction. Piling best-case scenarios on top of each other only added up to a mountain of bullshit. He needed to add a touch of realism to thin the batter.

“If you want Slappy's to be more than just a trendy Saturday night hang-out, you need to give people reason to come besides drinks and ass. You need to create
buzz
. You need to do is hook people in, get them
talking
. You need to give them something no other bar can offer. Something that can't be hired or bought or plugged in.”

Artie was silent, thoroughly entranced.

“So what does Gillis have to do with any of this?” he finally said, taking a bite of his sandwich and trying to play nonchalant. “And besides, you want to shake things up so much, why shouldn't I just fire him?”

“That's the thing Arthur,” Nico said, delicately sipping his coffee. “John needs to instigate it himself. Otherwise it's not natural. He needs to believe that he's the one calling the shots.”

Nico could tell Artie was still struggling. “I still don't see why I should care about all this,” Artie said. “Why should I help you?”

Nico waited a moment, confidence radiating from his face. Artie sat back, waiting for an explanation.

“Here's the thing,” Nico said. “If John Gillis's book is as big as we think it can be, everything associated with it will become notorious. It's like product placement. You ever see
Top Gun
?” Artie nodded but looked totally lost, trying to comprehend both how this might help his business and how Gillis had the brains to put a pen to paper for something other than filling out his time sheet. “When that movie hit theaters, the sales of Ray Ban sunglasses went through the roof. People
had
to own a pair, because that's what Tom Cruise wore.” He smacked his palm against the table to drive the point home. Artie jumped.

“I still don't see what this has to do with me. What's he writing anyway? One of those, whaddaya callem, legal thrillers or something?” Nico chuckled.

“I'll just say this Arthur, and I'm probably giving away too much as it is. I don't want anything leaking to the press, but I feel I can trust you.” The mention of the word 'press' caught Artie's attention. “Your bar is featured prominently in the book. Sure he has some choice words for the place—what employee wouldn't bitch a little about their employer?—but when this book hits, and hits big, everyone and their mother is going to want a piece of Slappy's Slop House. You think you have a loyal clientele now? Wait'll you start getting tourists who'll pay eight bucks for a bottle of Budweiser just so they can get served by someone who worked with a celebrity.” Artie seemed lost in thought. Slowly, Nico could see the dollar signs whizzing across his eyes.

“So what's my part? What do I need to do?”

Nico smiled.
And sometimes
, he thought as he smiled and sipped his coffee,
it's just that simple
.

After leaving the coffee shop, Nico went home and took a nap. He called Frank and told him to lock up when he left. He heard soft music coming from Valerie's room. He sighed and tiptoed past.

At 8:30 he went back to the agency. He left the main lights off and closed the door to his office, turning on only his desk lamp. Nico was pleased with the meeting. The key to every good partnership was mutual benefits. It was a gamble for Artie, but one that could pay off. He might be sacrificing a few dollars up front, but opening the possibility for boatloads more on the back end.

Nico opened a drawer and took out a bottle of Dewar's. He unwrapped the top and poured till the count of five. He'd finished the Glenlivet a few days ago under the pretense that as soon as it was gone, he would revert back to soft drinks and coffee.

The first sip felt like fire in his mouth. He sucked on the liquid, his eyes tearing at the bitterness. Finally, when the taste had deadened, he swallowed and gasped for air.

Nico pitied men like Artie. Not for their ambition, he at least respected that. He truthfully did hope Artie could finance a chain of those silly bars and make a name for himself. He could turn it into the next Studio 54 for all Nico cared. What he hated about people like Artie was their pathetic inability to fend for themselves. They were scavengers, pretending to chew the grass while waiting for a predator to make the kill so they could eat the remains. Other animals would see them eating and infer that they'd killed it themselves, giving credit where none was due. They were the ones who stood on the shoulders of giants and claimed the success as their own. Nico knew. He'd read all the clippings about that bonehead actor making an ass out of himself. Artie was responsible for none of it. People loved to bask in the cold afterglow of burned out fame. The heat wasn't earned, it was taken. And it was something only a fool would fail to capitalize on.

Nico had fought to build his agency. His parents scraped for every penny when they came over from Italy. They never took out loans, never borrowed, and invested wisely. With little money to spend on toys, Nico spent every waking minute trudging back and forth to the library on 42nd street, sitting among the dusty wooden chairs, reading to escape the drudgery of life. His parent's mailbox overflowed with overdue notices, and he received several lashes from his father's belt when they were forced to pay his late fees. Nico remained in awe of the men and woman who gave their lives to make possible the books he held in his hands. To Nico, that was love on a higher plain.

It was a powerful feeling, Nico knew, to be partially responsible for such a creation. The average reader didn't give a crap who an author's agent was. Books were like movies in that way; nobody cares who builds the sets or does the makeup. The bottom line is what ends up on the screen, not how it got there.

After two glasses of whiskey, the static in his head rising with the alcohol, Nico picked up the phone and dialed John Gillis. On the third ring he heard a tired voice answer, “hello?”

“John?” Nico said.

“Speaking,” came the forceful voice.

“John, Nico Vanetti here. How's everything holding up?” Nico heard him clear his throat.

“What's up Nico? Things are holding up, had a little trouble at work but I'll be back soon. Hey, what'd you think of what I sent you? I felt weird about it at first, but hey, if I'm writing this thing I need to have pretty thick skin, right?”

“That's a good mindset. Just keep sending whatever you have, we'll take care of the rest,” Nico said. “I'm just glad to see it's coming along. I've watched dozens of young writers fall flat when faced with this kind of pressure. It's good to see your juices are still flowing. Everyone here loves the book and we're absolutely on pins and needles to see how it ends.” Nico heard a cough on the other end. He quietly refilled his glass.

“So what's up Nico?”

“Nothing much, I just wanted to see how things are progressing,” he said. “I've already been in touch with several houses, and there's quite a bit of buzz building about your book. I must say, I haven't been this excited about a project in a long, long time. I had some questions at the beginning, but my boy, you've really answered them.”

“Good to hear,” Gillis said, stifling a yawn. “Anything else I can do for you Nico? I'm kinda tired.”

“Nah, we'll take care of all the business mumbo-jumbo. You just keep plugging away.”

“No problem there. I'll tell you, and I never thought I'd say this, but I'm really enjoying this, the writing I mean. At first I was doing it just to screw my head on straight, but I don't know, there's just so much in there. I feel like every bolt I tighten loosens three more. But in a good way, like opening some wrapping paper and finding two or three presents instead of the one you were expecting.”
Two-book deal, three-book deal
floated by in Nico's mind. “Hey listen, do you think I should come into the agency at some point, you know, just to touch base in person?”

Shit
, Nico thought. He was hoping Gillis wouldn't say that. He didn't want to meet, not yet. He wanted to keep the aura of a supreme being, like the Wizard of Oz. Throw back that curtain and all that was left was a middle-aged man with graying hair who, aside from his custom suits, didn't look any more knowledgeable than the next guy. Until he was ready to actively shop the book around, all the pieces in place, Nico preferred to keep away from John. Once the book was finished and the deal signed, it wouldn't matter anymore.

“I'll be out of the office next week,” Nico lied. He'd make sure Frank held Gillis's calls. “Maybe after that we can get together.” Better to leave it open ended, not get pegged into a specific time. That way if he needed to finagle his way out of another meeting in a few weeks, he could think of an excuse on the fly.

“That's cool. I've been trying to keep up a schedule, but my social life has been non-existent. Guess it comes with the territory though, right? Don't see too many writers out partying until 4 a.m.” Nico sighed and took a sip of his drink. He sincerely hoped his talk with Artie had the desired effect. He'd find out soon enough.