Thank You for Smoking

He flew First Class, which BR had okayed since he was carrying an attache case containing a half million dollars in fifty- and hundred-dollar bills. Lorne Lutch's hush money. It was a strange sensation, carrying all that money. It made him feel like a drug dealer or a Watergate bag man. Going through the X-ray machine at Dulles, the eyes of the guy monitoring the screen went buggy when he saw all that cash. No law against carrying around money, but there was a minor scene when his three women bodyguards declared their 9-millimeters. But once he was seated up in First and hovered over by stewards dispensing hot towels and Bloody Marys, he began to relax. Nick liked airplanes, even if the airlines were circulating less fresh air in the cabins to make more money. In a way, he mused, he and they were in the same business.

First Class was full. There was a lot of traffic back and forth between D.C. and L.A. these days. He recognized Barbra Streisand's issues person, whom he'd read had flown in to brief the National Security Council on Barbra's position on the developing Syrian situation. Richard Dreyfuss's issues person was also on board, having given a presentation to the cabinet on Richard's feelings about health reform.

It wasn't until two hours into the flight that Nick realized that the woman sitting next to him, underneath Jackie O — sized dark glasses, was Tarleena Tamm, the television producer friend of the First Family. Nick didn't introduce himself, knowing how celebrities, especially controversial ones, value their privacy in the air. But then he became aware that she was sneaking furtive glances at him. When their eyes connected for the third, embarrassing time, he smiled at her. She said, "Aren't you the tobacco person who was kidnapped?"

"Yes," Nick said, flattered at being approached by a celebrity. He was about to reciprocate when she set her jaw and said, "I know a lot of people who died of lung cancer. Good people."

Nick said to her, "No bad people?"

She gave him a fierce look, craned about to see if there was an empty seat, and finding none, went back to angrily marking up the script on her large lap with a big, angry red pen. Some screenwriter would pay for Nick's insolence.

Nick loved L.A. Arriving there always made it feel like Friday, even in the middle of a week facing a full workload. He felt exhilarated walking off the plane and imagined himself at the wheel of the sporty red Mustang he'd had Gazelle rent for him, driving along Mulholland Drive at night and looking down on all the lights of the city, spreading out as far as the eye could see. Too bad Heather or Jeannette wasn't here. Maybe he could entice Heather to fly out. Or Jeannette.

Shattering this pleasant reverie was the sight of a Middle Eastern-looking chauffeur with a hundred-dollar haircut waiting for him at the gate holding up one of those signs: mr. naylor. When he innocently reached for Nick's attache case, Nick's bodyguards nearly wrenched his arm out of its socket. The chauffeur apologetically introduced himself as Mahmoud and said that he'd been sent by Mr. Jack Bein, of Associated Creative Talent, and handed Nick an envelope with a note inside from Bein asking Nick to call him immediately.

Nick was sorrier still for his canceled Mustang when he saw Mahmoud's vehicle, a white stretch limousine the length of a lap pool. People standing on the curb nearby waiting for the shuttle bus saw Nick with his entourage and Moby Dick limousine and demanded his autograph, which made the bodyguards nervous. Nick signed one and the person who'd asked for it examined it, frowned, and said, "It's not him." The small crowd dispersed.

It was cool and cavernous inside and lit with scores of tiny Christmas tree lights. A huge TV screen in front displayed computerized fireworks that formed the words "Welcome to Los Angeles, Mr. Naylor." A microwave oven beeped open with a bowl of hot towels; a wet bar opened with four kinds of freshly squeezed juice, as well as liquor. On the seats were fresh copies of the L.A. Times, Variety, and Asahi Shinbum. So where, Nick wondered, was the terry cloth bathrobe?

Suddenly the fireworks display vanished from the screen and was replaced with a huge face: deeply tanned, teeth so white they hurt to look at, eyes masked by tinted aviator glasses. Nick was trying to figure why the TV had gone on and what game show host this was when the face said: "Nick!"

Nick started.

"Jack Bein. Is everything okay?"

It was asked with urgency, with fear, as if he expected Nick to tell him, No, everything is not okay, Jack. Things are very un-okay. And you, your family, and your dog are going to suffer for it.

"Yes," Nick said, recovering his composure. "Fine. Thank you."