Rudolph Wurlitzer - Slow Fade

“I’m here,” A.D. said. “Who’s there?”

“Walker.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Walker. Because of you being such an asshole, I’m pinned here with no eyes, no gig, and not too much hope.”

“What would give you hope?”

“A deal.”

“You’ll get a deal.”

“Is there some kind of watch on me?” A.D. asked, suddenly nervous that Walker was just sitting there staring at him. “Am I in worse shape than they’ve told me?”

“You’re the same,” Walker said. “I’m just sitting here wondering if you have any pain pills.”

“I take all they give me.”

“How many years have you been on the road?” Walker asked.

“Too many. I’ve been through it all on the road.”

They were silent and once again Walker watched an obscure night give way to an equally obscure dawn.

“Did anyone from the band ask for me?” A.D. asked.

“The nurse told me someone came by to say they had checked out.”

“Who are you, anyway?” A.D. asked. “Aside from being your father’s off-the-curb son.”

A.D. was experiencing an almost overwhelming wave of fury, an emotion which, while it expressed itself, made Walker feel strangely relieved.

“I’ve been on the road myself, one way or the other,” Walker replied, “and I probably know less than you about what comes next.”

“Does that mean there’s no deal?” A.D. asked.

“Something might be arranged,” Walker said. “To fit our needs. One way or the other.”

Having approached that decision, he eased himself out of his chair and slowly shuffled out of the room.

LATER that day, Wesley Hardin and his wife, Evelyn, arrived at the door of Walker’s hospital room. Evelyn opened the door, gasping at the way Walker’s head tilted to one side, one arm hanging over the bed. There was such intense suffering in his face, as if his open mouth had crystallized into a silent scream, that she waited until she saw him breathe before she shut the door.

“He’s asleep,” she whispered.

“We’ll try the other guy,” Wesley said.

They moved down the hall and entered A.D.’s room.

“A.D. Ballou?” Wesley asked. “I’m Wesley Hardin and next to me is my wife, Evelyn, who was riding with my son when your horse got away from you. We’re all concerned about your accident.”

“If I was you I’d be concerned, too,” A.D. said. “I’m asking for full compensation. I was attached to my left eye, more even, than my right, being as how I’m left-handed.”

“I can understand your feelings and, hell, I sympathize with you,” Wesley said. “But unfortunately you’re not in a great position to ask for damages. You rode past two clearly marked No Trespassing signs and avoided the signals of a guard stationed at the edge of the mesa. Not only that, but a substantial amount of nose candy was found in your jacket pocket, a charge which we have, for the moment, been able to have suspended. Despite all this, however, we are, in good faith, willing to cover your hospital bill as well as your travel expenses back to wherever it is you want to go.”

“Good faith doesn’t play with me,” A.D. said.

Wesley pulled up a chair near the head of the bed and leaned forward. He was tired and his day had been bad and he didn’t want to be there.

“Look here, Mr. Ballou,” he said with an equal mixture of intimacy and weariness, “I’m putting it to you straight. We have to work this out now or not at all. Making a film is like being on a fast train. Once off you can hardly ever get back on again. I’m flying to Mexico tonight never to return to this little candy-assed town.”

“Now is okay with me,” said A.D., who was having trouble listening.

“Good,” Wesley said. “I talked to Walker on the phone today. He’s sleeping, which is just as well because what I want to say concerns the two of us as much as it does him. He says you’ve written songs and other stuff as well, including screenplays.”

A.D. realized the ball had been thrown to him, that Walker had somehow set something up, and he did the only thing he could to keep the ball in play: he lied.

“I’ve written a few,” he said, inventing himself on the spot. “My uncle wrote screenplays. We did The Big Deal together.”

“Whatever,” Wesley said, staying very much on his fast train. “I know that you and Walker have talked and that you’ve found common ground together and common ground is a precious thing when you’re standing on quicksand.”

“Amen,” A.D. said.

Wesley stood up and walked over to the window, trying to form an idea, or perhaps it was a hook, in any case something to wrap around A.D. and maneuver him into whatever angle he might come up with. Wesley was a master at impromptu story conference, being well known in the industry for turning almost certain defeats into spectacular commitments from the money people, but as he turned to face the bed he found himself not so much making a pitch to A.D. as awkwardly revealing Walker’s back story.

“Two or three years ago, God, I don’t even remember exactly, but Walker had just gotten married and his sister, Clementine, had gone off to India to study the sitar or some such instrument. When no one heard from her for six months Walker and his wife decided to go over there and look for her. I was working and ending a rotten marriage and not paying much attention to him or anyone else, including Clementine. Although I did make a few high-level calls, one to the Canadian prime minister and the other to a senator, and they both said they would put professionals on the case. It relieved me and I didn’t think any more about it. I was even pleased she was off on an adventure and had made some kind of a break from L.A. . ”

He walked over to Evelyn, standing beside her and nervously twisting his fingers into the thick strands of her black hair.

“I guess in those days Walker was a little confused. He was drifting around, trying to promote an all-girl rock-’n’-roll band and developing a few scripts. I had given him a job as assistant producer on a film and when he consistently failed to show up I had to fire him. . ”

“You don’t have to get into this right now,” Evelyn said.

“I want to get into it right now,” Wesley insisted. “Did you know that his wife died over there?”

“I didn’t know.”

“I found out this morning. From his doctor.”

“Listen,” A.D. said, having managed to grasp only the bare drift of Wesley’s tale. “All I know is that I’m blind in one eye on account of one of your Indians and I want to get paid off for the loss. It’s that simple.”

“I encourage you to sue the pricks,” Wesley said, not breaking stride, even relieved to be forced away from the story. “Not only that, but I will give you the name of a lawyer who is an expert on such matters. But of course it’ll take more than a few years to see any money at all — that is, if you’re lucky, which I surely hope you are.”

Wesley left his wife’s side and went back to the chair near the bed, pulling it up to A.D. and leaning forward toward his ear. He breathed deeply for a few minutes, as if summoning up enough energy to think through the deal.

“What’s on my mind now, A.D., is what you’re going to do while you’re waiting to get back into shape.”

“I’ll go along with that,” A.D. said. “What am I going to do while I’m waiting to get back into shape?”

“I owe you a period of recuperation,” Wesley said. “It being my wife, my son, and my Indians that caused you to lose your eye. With that in mind, I arranged a house for you and Walker outside of town. I want you to consider writing a screenplay with Walker that somehow includes his recent experiences. I’ll give each of you ten grand up front, twenty more on delivery. “