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exaggerated reactions in guys, other than himself. Alan asked her about it once and she told him she was baffled; she gave men all the room in the world. She swore she did nothing to drive her husbands to lunatic behavior. But it just kept happening.
    It was somehow suspect.
    “Yeah … she’s great. I mean, it’s not like we’re married or something. Sure … she’s great.” God, he was telling his life story to a girl who folded paper birds.
    Bart wanted more beer.
    “Well, that’s good. Is she pretty?”
    “Pretty?”
    “Yeah, you know … sexy? Don’t men like that?” She was lowering her voice like a neckline.
    Alan looked off, smiling. Christ, she was coming on to him. It was weird. And after the Hard Day’s Night he’d been sucked through, it felt good.
    “What’s your name again?”
    She told him. He said it a few times to her, using his nicest voice. After a minute, she told him he sounded sad and if he wanted, she could come over after she got off and keep him company.
    “I work out a lot and I give great back massages. Do you like blondes or brunettes?”
    Alan couldn’t recall the difference but managed some answer that made her laugh and told her where helived. She said she’d definitely be there. Asked if he were serious with Erica. He said it was more the other way around and Kimmy made a happy, cat-toy noise.
    “I really admire your talent,” she said. “And that isn’t coming from some naive place. I’m taking the David Berg comedy writing class at the
Fade-In Scriptwriters’ Academy.
Have you heard of him? He’s really an exceptional instructor.”
    Berg was the biggest hack in the business, thought Alan, now lying sideways on the floor with Bart, cradling the ambitious voice that was charming him; saying the perfect words it hoped would open Ali Baba’s cave.
    He stared closely at a hole in the wood floor that looked like it had been made by a nail. A blemish of darker grain under his feeling fingertip seemed like a sleeping bloodstain; death rust. He could faintly hear an electric knife humming, screaming voices.
    “So anyway, what do you look like, Alan? I’m medium height and everyone says I have a great figure. I grew up back East? You know, one of those ‘so what do you wanna do?’ towns?”
    When she got to the part about a spec feature script she’d like him to read and produce, Alan told her maybe they should make it some other time, managed to get off pleasantly, and stumbled out onto the deck to get some fresh air. He sagged in his hammock with Bart, staring out at the slow, sweeping tide as it rolled and foamed, making its way toward land. He began to unbutton his shirt, after tossing off shoes and hearing one slide off the deck into water. But he never finished and his sleeping form lolled in salt mist under moonlight.
    His dreams were violent and bloody.
    The Mercenary was knifing someone’s chest open, and just as the blade seamed upward, about to carve out the throat, Alan jerked awake. He scared Bart, asleep between his legs, head in Alan’s lap; a whiskered anvil.
    The two went inside but Alan couldn’t fall asleep.
    He kept the light on, holding onto Bart as waves crashed like angry beasts, pounding down his world.

subtext
    “I got my first ulcer when I was fourteen. It felt like a helicopter crashed inside me.”
    Throat cleared. Fingers of both hands welded together. Separating; a tearing zipper.
    “My father’s a director. Stage. Very famous. Great guy. Brilliant. Brain a little bigger than his heart. But … lots of talent. I’m a writer.”
    A Cessna divebombs outside; Pearl Harbor noises. A gardener trims, five stories down.
    “My mother?”
    Face put on pause. Reverse. Stopping at a year.
    “I don’t know. She was very kind. An actress. Her emotions … I don’t know … mix was too rich, maybe. She was on antidepressants. Used to paint when she’d be at home recovering at the beach house we had in SagHarbor. That’s back