“I won’t,” I say.


    Another shot. Another police car arrives. Then an ambulance. My stepmother for about ten months, who I ended up sleeping with twice, gets out of a van and is lit, positioned in front of a camera. I yawn, shivering.


    “Did the shots wake you up?” the doorman asks.


    “Yeah.” I nod.


    “You’re the guy who lives on the eleventh floor, right? The guy who directs videos, Jason or something, visits you a lot?”


    “Martin?” I say.


    “Yeah, hi. I’m Jack,” the doorman says.


    “I’m Graham.” We shake hands.


    “I’ve talked to Martin a couple of times,” Jack says.


    “About … what?”


    “Just that he knows someone in a band I was almost in.” Jack takes out a pack of clove cigarettes, offers me one. Three more shots, then a helicopter starts circling. “What do you do?” he asks.


    “Go to school.”


    Jack lights my cigarette. “Yeah? Where do you go to school?”


    “I go to school at…” I stop. “Um, I go to school at U … at, um, USC.”


    “Yeah? What are you? Freshman?”


    “I’ll be a sophomore in the fall,” I tell him. “I think.”


    “Yeah? Cool.” Jack thinks about this for a minute. “Do you know Tim Price? Blond guy? Really good-looking but, like, the worst person in the world? I think he’s in a fraternity?”


    “I don’t think so,” I tell him. There’s a horrible scream from across Wilshire, then smoke.


    “How about Dirk Erickson?” he asks.


    Pretending to think about it for a minute, I answer, “No, I don’t think so.” Pause. “But I know a guy named Wave.” Pause. “He’s very fit and his family basically owns Lake Tahoe.”


    Another police car arrives.


    “Do you go to school?” I ask, after a while.


    “No, I’m an actor, really.”


    “Yeah?” I ask. “What have you been in?”


    “A commercial for gum. Boyfriend in a Clearasil spot.” Jack shrugs. “Unless you’re willing to do some pretty awful things it’s hard getting a job in this town—and I’m willing.”


    “Yeah, I guess.”


    “I really want to get into video,” Jack says.


    “Yeah,” I say. “Video, dude.”


    “Yeah, that’s why Mark’s a really good contact.” There’s a huge crashing sound, then more smoke, then another ambulance.


    “You mean Martin,” I say. “It would probably help out a lot, dude, if you get the names straight.”


    “Yeah, Martin,” he says. “He’s a good contact.”


    “Yeah, he’s a good contact,” I say slowly. I finish the cigarette and stand by the door, waiting for the sound of more gunfire. When it looks like nothing much is going to happen, Jack offers me a joint and I shake my head and say that I’ve got to drink some juice then get some more sleep. “There are two calico cats and a guinea pig I have never seen before upstairs in my bed.” Pause. “Plus I need to drink some more juice.”


    “Yeah, sure, dude, I understand,” the doorman says, sparking up. “Juice, man. It’s good.”


    The pot smells sweet and I kind of want to stay. Another shot, more screams. I head toward the elevator.


    “Hey. I think maybe something’s gonna happen,” the doorman says as I step into the elevator.


    “What?” I ask, holding the doors open.


    “Maybe something will happen,” the doorman says.


    “Yeah?” I say, unsure of what to do. I stare at the doorman, standing in the lobby, smoking a joint, then at the Slurpee, and we both wait.


    I get a conference call from my mother, my father’s lawyer and someone from the studio he works at, at eleven the next morning. I listen, then tell them I’ll fly to Las Vegas today, and I hang up to make flight reservations. Martin wakes up, looks over at me, yawning. I wonder where Christie is.


    “Oh man,” Martin groans, stretching. “What time is it? What’s going on?”


    “It’s eleven. My father died.”


    A long pause.


    “You … had a dad?” Martin asks.


    “Yeah.”


    “What happened?” Martin sits up, then lies back down, confused. “How, man?”


    “Plane crash,” I say.


    I take the pipe off the nightstand, look for a lighter.