Lee Goldberg: The Walk

The chef swept the money into his hand, dumped it in the open register, and returned to his cooking, digging a handful of chopped meat out of a bucket and tossing it onto the hissing grill. Marty watched him.

“You know there was an earthquake, right?” Marty asked.

The chef replied without turning around. “People still got to eat. I still got to make a living.”

Marty was about to ask what inspired the chef to create such a bizarre entree, but was distracted by a hard shove from the big guy next to him.

“Hey asshole, your back is on fire.”

Marty looked over his shoulder and, out of the corner of his eye, saw smoke rising from his gym bag. He yelped, shrugged the bag off and dropped it on the concrete floor, stomping out the flames. It was only after the fire was smothered, and he was staring down breathlessly at the scorched bag, that he realized the stupidity of what he’d done.

He’d put out the fire and saved the bag, only to destroy anything that hadn’t burned inside by stomping on it. If he’d bothered to think first, instead of panicking, he could have extinguished the flames with a little water.

Now he knew why there was so much smoke everywhere he went.

“Nice going, dumbfuck.” The big guy beside him, wearing the JC Penney suit and Wal-Mart tie, guffawed mightily, skillfully avoiding choking on a mouthful of burrito at the same time.

Marty picked up his burned bag and carried it over to one of the wobbly tables, where he spilled out the contents on the chipped Formica top.

The transistor radio was smashed, and so was the flashlight, but Marty thought he still might be able to get it to work. A couple of his Evian bottles had broken open, soaking his matches, but they would dry out. Or at least he hoped they would. His t-shirt was scorched, and so were a few of his granola bars, but the duct tape, first aid kit, and most of the other stuff seemed to be okay.

“You thought you were prepared for The Big One, didn’t you, Chief?” The comment was followed by more mighty guffaws.

Marty looked up to see the big man standing at the table, shaking his boulder-like head with disgust. The guy clutched a Coke in his paw as if he were afraid it might try to wriggle free. He sorted through Marty’s things with one, fat, hairy finger.

“You don’t need any of this shit.” He opened his jacket to reveal a large gun, hanging from a loose-fitting shoulder holster. “This is all you need to survive.”

“You can’t take a drink from a gun,” Marty said.

“It’s what you use to take one from somebody else, dumb fuck. You don’t carry a fucking thing on your back, that’s basic survival skills, no cucumbrances. Let some other dumb bastard drag the heavy shit around. Take what you want when you want it. That’s the law according to Darwin, Smith, and Wesson.”

The Chef set Marty’s burrito and coke down in front of him. Marty glanced at the big guy, half expecting him to make a move on his meal. The big guy grinned, all yellow teeth and swollen gums.

“No thanks,” the guy pulled out a chair and sat down. “I’m full.”

Marty took a bite out of his burrito. It was hot, salty, and sticky with cheese. Incredibly delicious. He couldn’t take a second bite fast enough.

“Makes you wonder why other Heeb food isn’t this good, doesn’t it?”

Marty washed down his mouthful of burrito with some Coke. It was very sweet, very cold, and absolutely wonderful. This was ranking as one of the best meals of Marty’s life, despite the present company.

“You a cop?” Marty asked.

“Better than that,” he reached into his breast pocket and dealt Marty his business card, a fresh, greasy fingerprint on the edge. Buck Weaver, licensed bounty hunter, skip tracer, and private investigator. “I just brought in Paco Pandito.”

Marty shrugged, his mouth full.

“Only the meanest, nastiest, saltiest mother-fucker in the western United States,” Buck said. “Carjacking, dope-dealing, coke-sniffing, cock-sucking bastard, that’s who he is. Caught him at the outlet mall outside of Barstow. Can’t resist discount clothing. That’s his weakness. Pistol-whipped him as he came out of Tommy Hilfiger, then kicked him in the balls to keep him pleasant on the drive back. ’Course it’s hard to be too unpleasant when you’re riding in the fucking trunk.”

Buck slurped on his coke. “I would’ve stayed in Barstow if I knew I was driving back for the goddamn Big One. At least I got my cash before it hit.”

Marty nodded, wolfing down his Burrito, taking breaks between bites for drags on his Coke. The way Buck was studying him, Marty wondered if the guy was about to snatch the burrito out of his hands. It made him eat even faster.

“You got that sleazy, insincere look of a car salesman or a lawyer,” Buck stated. “Am I right?”

“Network executive,” Marty replied.

“What the fuck is that?”

“I make TV shows,” Marty explained.

“You write them?”

“No.”

“You produce them?”

“No.”

“You direct them?”

“No.”

Buck slammed his fist on the table, frustrated and not too happy about it. “Then how the fuck do you make them?”

Marty finished his burrito and sucked the last bit of cola from around the ice cubes as he thought about his answer. The fact is, the shows could get made without his involvement at all. He served no real creative function beyond making sure the network was getting the show it paid for. But no network executive in town let his role stop there, not if he wanted to get anywhere in this business. The key was to seem involved enough in the show to take credit for all its success, but remain distant enough to take none of the blame for its failure. That was the mark of a great network executive.

“I provide guidance to the writers, producers, and directors,” Marty said. “I give very constructive notes.”

“You call that a fucking job?” Buck snorted.

“It’s a profession,” Marty replied, defensive. Why was he arguing with this man?

“What good is it going to do you now?”

“About as much as yours.”

“I got the fucking ability to survive out there,” Buck said. “What the fuck you got? Notes? Give me one of your great fucking notes.”

Marty looked him in the eye. The big, hulking, knuckle-dragging Neanderthal in a polyester suit and Treasure Island casino tie.

“It’s encumbrance,” Marty said, “not cucumbrance.”

Buck leaned slowly forward. “What the fuck you say?”

“You said you don’t want any cucumbrances,” Marty sneered. “Sounds like you don’t want to carry around any vegetables.”

Buck yanked out his gun and put the barrel right against Marty’s forehead. “One squeeze and you become a cucumbrance.”

Marty froze. The sheer idiocy of the situation struck him more than the fear of death. He’d survived the earthquake, only to get killed because he stopped to eat a Kosher burrito and correct a sociopath’s pronunciation. No one else in the place seemed to notice. They hadn’t noticed the earthquake, why should they notice a murder?

Marty held Buck’s fish-eyed gaze for a long moment. But instead of shooting, Buck broke into a smile and shoved the gun back into his holster.

“Get it? A fucking cucumbrance.” Buck clapped Marty on the shoulder, two friendly cavemen sharing a fire. “You didn’t think I was a funny guy, did you?”

Marty could still feel the imprint of the barrel against his forehead. He quickly got up and swept his stuff back into his pack. It was time to get the hell out of here. Why had he stopped in the first place?

“You’re right, that was a great fucking note,” Buck said, getting to his feet, blocking Marty’s escape. “You got some balls.”