No Contest

“Trendiest place in L.A.,” Dasheway explained with a shrug. The Baron Souprema Cafeteria was the epitome in West Coast chic. It combined cafeteria self-serve lines and Formica booths with high-priced showpiece dining. “There she is,” he said to Remo. “See the blonde?”

“Which blonde?”

Dasheway made a face.

“Give me a break. There’s twenty-five blondes in the booths alone. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Hey, look closely. Recognize anybody?”

“To be honest, they all look vaguely familiar. They from the same modeling agency?”

Dasheway sighed long and loud. “Get off it. First booth. Blond hair. Big butt. Tell me you at least recognize the butt.” Dasheway had to hand it to the guy. He was a pretty good actor. He had to be acting, right? “It’s Roberta Lorez. Otherwise blown as Quimby Lorez. Otherwise known as…?”

Remo snapped his fingers. “Blo-Lo! Yeah, I’ve heard of her.”

“You’ve heard of her? That smart-ass lard-ass makes twenty-nine million a movie. And sometimes her movies don’t even make that much.”

“Didn’t she make a movie called Juggly?”

“Joggly. Listen, millions of guys around the world would love to score with Blo-Lo. I want to see you do it.”

Remo shrugged. “Okay. Here I go.”

Dasheway was ready to bolt. If the scene turned ugly, he did not want to be associated with this guy Romeo. But what if the guy actually did it?

Dasheway held his breath as Romeo said hello to Roberta Lorez. She gave him a nasty look, but the look, if he was seeing things right, melted.

A moment later she ushered him into the booth. Dasheway’s amazement and delight ballooned as she giggled and leaned over the table in a classic cleavage exhibition. Dasheway strolled toward the booth, trying to listen in.

“You know why they call me Blo-Lo, don’t you?” he heard Roberta Lorez ask. She was panting like a sprinter.

“No.” Romeo was looking uncomfortable.

“I’ll show you!” she gasped delightedly and skootched under the booth.

“Ms. Blo, you’ve got me all wrong. I just wanted to come over and tell you how much I enjoyed you in that one movie you did with Jack Nicholson.” Romeo Dodd was deftly slithering around on the booth, avoiding the hands that were snatching at his trousers from beneath the table.

“I never did a movie with Jack Nicholson,” said the voice from below.

“I meant Peter Falk.”

Romeo called to the producer, “You satisfied?”

“Not even close!” exclaimed the table.

“Let’s get out of here, buddy,” Dasheway said. “We’ve got a program to produce.”

The whole incident gave Remo a serious case of the willies, but Olaf Dasheway was in an even more serious state. In fact, Remo might have thought him dead if he couldn’t hear the producer’s hammering heart. Dasheway was sitting stock-still in the back of the limo, a frozen smile on his gaunt face.

“So, you think we’ll get ratings?”

Dasheway blinked. His eyes were shining with some sort of unpleasant pleasure. “Ratings? My God, son, we got ratings already. This is going to be the biggest reality show ever. Hell, it’s going to be the biggest show ever. Ever!”

“Ever. Got ya.”

“We have to get the ball rolling!” Dasheway grabbed the phone from his pocket and jabbed it “I want Philstock.” He said to Remo, “Philstock’s my best director.” He spoke into the phone. “Philstock, how fast can we have a reality show in the can? We’ll shoot it here in L.A. No special locations. No big studio introductions. I want fast.” Dasheway grinned and thumbed on the speaker. “I guess we could have something in the can in a week, not counting casting.”

“Casting’s arranged.”

“But unsigned,” Remo reminded Dasheway.

Chapter 11

The young man had an attitude problem. Quite frankly, he carried it around with him as if he had a chip on his shoulder.

But that was just a part of his personality. Take it or leave it. Truth was, he wasn’t nearly as ornery as he used to be. Ask anyone.

The young man’s life had undergone a radical change some years ago. When he was just barely a man, he suffered an emotional trauma and somehow ended up where he never expected. But the Arizona desert agreed with him. Mostly, the people of the Sun On Jo reservation agreed with him.

Well, they didn’t exactly agree with him. Usually they disagreed. They thought he was a loudmouth. Or an obnoxious troublemaker. Or just a jerk. But they all had an affection for him, anyway. You couldn’t help but like him.

His name was Winner, and he was the most likable jerk white man in this entire tribe of redskins.

Of course, his skin wasn’t white and the skin of his people wasn’t red and, for that matter, Winner had never known a black man who was black. But he had known a Latino girl, years ago, with exquisite, dark skin. She had called him Weener and he had loved her, for a few days. Then she was dead.

Nobody called him Weener now. Nobody.