Free The Bones by Seth Greenland Page B

a far, far better thing than having, say, one of the wealthy Persian
     brothers who owned the rug emporium on La Brea pay her rapt attention. And why? Because Frank was famous. He may have been
     B-list but, dammit, he'd appeared on Hollywood Squares. And, no, he hadn't been the center square (that honor having been reserved for the sparkling Whoopi Goldberg), but he was
     on the top left and an awful lot of people had seen him.
    Being Frank Bones's girlfriend elevated Honey Call to a level that eluded most of the hopefuls who annually washed into Los
     Angeles on a warm wave of misplaced optimism. It was a leg up, a shortcut to the bright lights she had yearned for while growing
     up on a sod farm in Washington State, Honey having spent her childhood literally watching grass grow. Circumstances may have
     rendered her obscure prior to her association with Frank, but their romantic association served to illuminate the shifting
     shadows in which people like her usually dwell until the end of their days. She is an appendage on the arm of someone who
     has had an HBO special and the huge billboard on Sunset Boulevard that goes with it; no small accomplishment in a town where
     being an ex-wife of Rod Stewart's carries significant social weight. Perhaps it hasn't gone so well for Frank lately, maybe
     he'd been spending too much time working dives in towns like Lincoln, Nebraska, and Portland, Oregon; maybe he hasn't had
     the breakthrough role that will catapult him to the forefront of national consciousness. But now the elusive bauble of a network
     show twinkles on the horizon like an early-evening star, and Honey feels as if she can nearly reach out and pluck it from
     the sky.
    She draws an almost palpable strength from the prospect, believing that her prayers have been answered. The Lynx offer to
     Frank is surely a testament to God's power.
    Even if they want him to play an Eskimo.
    "I read the script," she says, having noticed him turning the pages of the newspaper, indicating the search for a new article
     to read is on and a conversational opening exists.
    "What script?" Not looking up, his eyes having already lit on something in the Metro section about a gang shooting in Pico
     Rivera.
    "Kirkuk." This is the Eskimo project to which Lynx is attempting to get Frank to plight his troth.
    "What'd you think?" Still not looking up.
    "I want to play Borak."
    Frank has known this moment has been coming from the instant he read the script and has been dreading it. The situation needs
     to be handled with great delicacy lest he find himself sharing the same fate that befell the Athenian men in Lysistrata: that is to say, a suspension of coitus until the political situation transmogrifies into something more convivial to the distaff
     side.
    "Borak is the female lead," he reminds her in a tone intended to convey the inappropriateness of her ambition.
    "I know."
    "Then let me tell you, before this goes any further, I'm not doing Kirkuk," Frank voileys, hoping to yank this weed before it takes over his garden.
    "You're not? I thought you were kidding when you said you weren't doing it. You have to do it." The fear in her voice is noticeable. To be this close to having a boyfriend who, with a little luck, could ride
     his show to the promised land of the A-list, which, needless to say, would accomplish untold things for both of them, and
     then have her dreams dashed by Frank's petulance is unbearable.
    "I met with my friend Lloyd," Frank says, his definition of friend expanding in direct proportion to his self-interest, "and we're talking about doing a pilot together. So pack up the mukluks,
     babe. No one's playing an Eskimo." And with that, Frank turns his attention to the homicide rate in South Los Angeles.
    Honey's thinking, This is different. Things may not be as dark as I anticipated.
    "What's the pilot about?"
    "The Bones."
    "So there's a part for me, right? I mean, if it's about you, then I have to be in it since I'm your