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And there was that goddamned psychic pulling down twenty-five large and calling them like some pointy-hatted deity.

The network had poured god knows how much into the promotion of “Mike and Pooky” and they were as frazzed as Bell. Over lunch last week, at Lorimar, some gay line producer swore up and down that the network had dropped at least five million. Double truck spreads in
Newsweek, The Stone, Time, TV Guide.
Radio and television spots. Talk show jibber-jabber with the groins who played Mike and Pooky, charming Jay, walking on the comedy sun-surface with Dave, doing a Pearl Jam ballad with Paul and the band.

But it didn’t help. The pilot got a fourteen share and it just wasn’t enough. Bye-bye, Mike. Bye-bye, Pooky. Turn in your wax figurines to be melted down. Back to potato chip commercials and method workshops.

And she’d done the same thing for the last six years, employed by the network. She’d only missed a few times. She even claimed she could get 80 percent accuracy. Time had proven her right.

“What about the new pilot?” Her eyes were somehow
very sad. Too much despair. Too much everything. But then how would anyone look who knew what was coming tomorrow. And the day after. And next week. And five years from now. And could see you dying in some hospital ward. Or maybe worse.

“What do you see?” Alan’s fingers braided, nervously. “Will I do well with it?”

She closed her eyes, took several deep breaths, polished toes tugging at blue shag. Her body faintly vibrated, curled in the chair as if she watched a favorite movie on TV. All she needed was buttered popcorn and a kitty.

“Write down the name of the show …” Her eyes opened a bit; shutters. She gestured to some writing implements on the desk. Then, her stare was petitioned back by the trance and heavy lids sealed, again.

Alan picked up a felt pen and scrawled THE MERCENARY on a sheet of white paper. It looked great, he thought. Bold and gutsy. The kind of title that made you want to go out on a midnight raid and slit villagers’ throats.

He slid the paper back to her and she didn’t move. The strange, hammocked eyes were restive. A minute passed.

More.

Alan needed to cough but drowned it with some Hires she’d given him. It was warm, tasted like the skull soda they give lunatics so they can dress themselves.

She stirred a little, opened eyes. Traced her finger over Alan’s words. Slowly, again and again. It was eerie. Maybe ten times from the
T
to the
Y.
Then, she stopped, froze; peered up at him, from her little writing desk.
Smiled. “I see a great deal of money … you’re going to be successful.”

She stared off, as if savoring an evocative painting, she alone saw.

“It’s going to be a huge hit. I love the whole thing. I love all the
E’
s in the title.
E
is very good for you. People or places with that letter …”

Alan’s smile fanned. It was a rush. Like your best friend in high school telling you he’d talked to the girl you had a crush on and finding out she didn’t sleep at night thinking about you.

But it was a lot more. He’d been totally balls-out nuts working on this pilot idea for “The Mercenary” and the outline bible was the best thing he’d ever done. It had all the colors, textures. He knew it would make America insane and spin on the meanest, biggest ceiling fan they ever saw.

Mimi was still trancing, surfing the solar system. Jesus, thought Alan as he watched her, this lady might be the wall and the plug. And she was sparking to
his
idea.

She’d told Franky his sitcom for the Fox Network, “Let’s Get Serious,” was going to pull numbers and yank a fat pickup for a full twenty-two, first three out. And that’s what happened. One year ago, today.

That was Mimi.

Like you wind a clock and it ticks. That’s what she did. Franky had explained the whole thing this way: your life was a book and as Mimi sat with you, she zonked into some starry, forever place, sat on a rock, skimmed a few chapters, then galaxied back, opened her eyes, and abrafucking-cadabra she’s in her tacky little condo smiling up at you and the Elvis air freshener.

At least you hope she’s smiling.

Tell that one to Bell, Alan thought. No smiles on that clog in his bloodstream. Just a ten-million-dollar cancelled albatross winging over a traumatized brain.

“Any problems? Delays?” Alan had to know. The network hadn’t even heard the idea yet. And those clawhammer smiles could smash your head.

Mimi sighed.

But it wasn’t weariness. It was just giving the channel some room to breathe and stretch and feel good about doing the reading; making the timeless data feel at home so it would stay awhile.

He needed some coffee. He always needed coffee.

All day, at Paramount or Universal or Columbia or wherever somebody was renting his thought process, he’d drink as much head diesel as he could hold. Fucking stuff was probably eating everything inside. Take an X ray, get a big blank. “Sorry, Mr. White, you don’t appear to have any internal organs left. You really should consider a nondairy creamer.”

“No delays. But it’s …”—she took his hand like a mother—“it’s going to be very difficult, Alan.” She grasped his hand more tightly. “This show of yours. It’s extremely special. I want to be here for you if you need me. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He said nothing. It was the way she was looking at him, the way she was gripping his fingers harder than she needed to. The fear that seemed to flash across her face, a REM death mask.

“Maybe not,” he confessed.

“Success can be … very dangerous.”

He felt the bromides slinking near; Dear Abby thongs rounding the corner, out for a stroll. Thanks, lady, but I’ll put up garlic and mirrors if it really gets …

“… religion may not help.”

Alan stared. Spoke softly. “Did you just read my mind?” He was more uneasy than he sounded.

She didn’t reply. Looked away in private travail.

“Right,” he muttered. “So, what’s going to go wrong? Am I going to have a heart attack or something? Go bankrupt?” His eyes twinkled. “Get stuck on a bad cruise?”

She didn’t smile.

Alan sensed the crystal ball going black. He wanted to leave.

“Could just be … challenges.” She gestured without detail.

“I … is there something you’re not—”

“Alan …”

The two locked in an uncomfortable stare. Those eyes, lost in miserable giftedness, were aflame. She was being scarier than shit, again.

“I’m right, aren’t I? There’s something you want to say to me.” He’d kill for a cup of coffee. Something to do with his hands. Something to make him forget. His eyes had the shifting-crawlies: left, right, up, down; like Beaver Cleaver caught jerking off.

“Your show is going to be very powerful.”

Alan didn’t exactly feel shook up by that one. He’d figured she was going to tell him something really horrible. Something monstrous that psychics tell doomed souls. Some cursing finality.

But this was good news. Why the dread?

Then, it hit him the way the punch line of a complicated joke suddenly goes from gas to solid in your thoughts—ka-boom: the genie appears with subtitles. He realized everyone in L.A. was too damn melodramatic, that was why. They all wanted the kleig-rub, and Mimi was just stroking the histrionic gloom.

The ones who weren’t trying to act were trying to model. The ones who weren’t trying to model were trying to write screenplays. Or produce. Or write jingles. Or produce jingles. Or act in jingles. Or be a jingle. People talked about pilots not feelings, unless it was how they felt about pilots. The box-office bloodstreamers were leaking everywhere you went. Ideas or creative notions were regarded as signals from deep space if they were good. If they were bad, they were treated like bad dogs.

L.A. didn’t need a mayor. It needed a director.

“Then I really don’t have anything to worry about …”

Mimi stood in the cramped bedroom-converted- to office, went to her bookshelf. Squeezed fingertips along books, found a musty hardcover. Slid it out, undusted a semicircle on the cover. Handed it to Alan.

“Depends.” She’d lowered her voice and Alan tried not to feel her sawing him in half.

“I want you to have this. Keep it, Alan. Read it if you need to. If not, it’s still yours.”

He glanced at the book, accepted it. Grimaced at the odor: old bookstore smell.

He rested it on the lap of his blue jeans, cleared a bit
more of the semicircle of dust. The title looked him in the eye.

Written by some guy named Seth Lawrence. First chapter, “Dwellers in the Mirage.” Second chapter, “Shadows Move.” Third, “Man as Slave.” Fourth, “The Divine Terror.” Fifth, “No Way Out.” Sixth and final chapter— “One Way Out.”

I love it, thought Alan. Big laughs.

“Thank you,” he said, politely.

Mimi nodded, looked at her watch. Another appointment outside. They could hear him, in the living room, popping his ballpoint.

“Alan, do you understand when I say your show is going to be powerful?”

“I’m comfortable with the idea of success if that’s what you mean.”

She shook her head sternly, suddenly angry. “Not success.
Power.
Incredible power. You have to be cautious.”

“I don’t plan to let it go to my head. I’m not a kid.” He was thirty-four. He
was
a kid.

The other appointment coughed.

Mimi took Alan’s hand, gripped it tightly. But something was different. Her hands were cold.

“Be careful. The next six months are going to change your life. Money. Power. And something else …” She shook her head, troubled beyond words. “… not sure. I see two—no, three people. The third is very bad for you. Very bad. You must …”

Her breath stopped, face drained white.

“Am I going to be all right?”

Mimi made a groaning sound, pressed nails into his palm so hard he tried to pull away, seeing bloody slits. “Say the title to me, again. I need to hear it.”

He spoke in a tense whisper, repeated it three times. She seemed to be crying yet no sounds issued, no tears. She saw the blood on his palm, quickly wiped it with her sleeve.

“Stay in touch with me, Alan.”

Oh, yeah, I’ll stay in touch with you, he thought. Every morning I’ll give you a buzz and—

“Don’t make this into a joke.”

Fuck.
She was reading his mind again.

“Well, what do you suggest? I let it keep me up nights?”

“I have no doubt it will.”

“What will? What are you talking about?”

“Something inside you. Something that … wants out.” She looked off, trying to describe the borders of a grotesque Rorschach. “It will come out.” She seemed confused by more disconnected images. Lost but continuing to try, stricken, swirling in some awful place. “… it will live in both places. Inside … outside.” She suddenly saw it and jerked back from him.

“Mimi …”

She became calm, like the victim of an air disaster, sitting in stunned agony on a bloody runway, waiting for ambulances.

“It’s a … monster,” she said. “He will bring tragedy.
Murder. Pain.” Her heart flooded with psychotic impressions and Alan stood to go.

“He’ll come out. He’ll find a way.”

It was the last thing he heard as he left and ended up in the bar at Spago’s, drinking until it closed.

S
mog covered L.A. like thin, concentration camp smoke.

“Andy, great to see you. I know this season’s been a circus with all the cancellations and strikes. How you been?”

Alan could barely make eye contact with Andy Singer. All he kept seeing was Cleo’s imbecilic smile superimposed on Andy’s conceited face.

Andy stretched, his iridescent Bijan shirt doing a trout shimmer. “Well, you know, ‘Cleo’ has been very good to us again this season.”

Really? thought Alan. Got news for you, pal; if Cleo had been good to you, she would’ve cut your heart out and fed it to you.

“Oh, yeah?” Alan smiled a little. But not enough to
give it away. “Well, I’m not surprised. That show just really hits people.”

Yeah, he thought. Like the bubonic stupids it hits people. Andy was delighted and giggled a bit. Alan stared at him, trying to imagine how so profound an injustice could’ve occurred.

Andy was all of twenty-five years old and had been promoted to junior V.P. of programming for the network one year earlier. But regardless of whatever the hell it was he did for a living, he was fucking good at his job. Alan couldn’t deny it. No one could.

The list went on and on.

“Surgeons.” Forty-two share after the second week, up against the Super Bowl … there was no way, but Andy picked it.

“A House for All.” Sweeps Week didn’t even make a dent. The other two networks threw-up
Lethal Weapon 3
and a two-hour, tear-jerk cabala with Barbara Walters interviewing seriously maimed celebrities to try and stop it. And the goddamn thing cleaned their clocks like fucking napalm. Stupid? Sure, it was stupid. Serious faces, talking over serious family “drama” and crying at every break. But incest cuts into the veins. Mel and Barbara didn’t even get a chance to pull their pants down.