Free Potboiler by Jesse Kellerman

Pfefferkorn had chosen after his surname was deemed too difficult to pronounce, “you’re a
star.
”
    The assistant producers sitting along the wall nodded obsequiously.
    “Thanks,” Pfefferkorn said.
    The producer’s secretary poked her head in to announce that the head of the studio urgently needed to speak to the producer.
    “Dang it all,” the producer said, standing up. “Well, you’re in good hands.”
    Pfefferkorn sat while the assistant producers ignored him and gossiped for forty minutes.
    “Sorry bout that,” the producer said, returning. “We’ll be in touch.”
    Pfefferkorn’s cell phone rang as he was walking across the studio lot.
    “How’d it go?” his film agent asked.
    “Great.”
    His hotel was located on a posh stretch of Wilshire Boulevard. He took a walk, passing a small group of people picketing a department store. Crossing the street to avoid them, he was then confronted by a woman who bade him to stop the atrocities in West Zlabia. He moved on.
    Alone in his suite, he did the same thing he had done on his previous two trips to Los Angeles: he dialed Carlotta’s number on his cell phone, stopping short of pressing CALL . Be a man, he thought. He picked up his room phone and instructed the hotel valet to bring around his rental car.

27.
    Pfefferkorn announced himself to the intercom. A moment later the gates parted. He inadvertently stomped the gas, spinning out on the gravel. He palmed his chest and told himself to keep it together. He checked himself in the rearview mirror, wiped the sweat from his brow, and drove slowly up the driveway.
    Carlotta stood by the front door, the dog peering out from between her ankles. She wore black leggings and a man’s shirt and was without makeup or jewelry. Like him, she appeared to be perspiring. Like him, she seemed skittish and circumspect.
    The butler held the car door for him.
    “Jameson,” Carlotta said, “you’ll park Mr. Pfefferkorn’s car, please.”
    “Madame.”
    The rental car dipped down the path and out of sight.
    They stood, looking at each other. Pfefferkorn came forward, holding out his gifts: a bouquet of flowers and a romance novel. Carlotta put up a hand.
    “Don’t touch me,” she said.
    Pfefferkorn stiffened. His stomach dropped. He wished he hadn’t given the butler his keys, so that he could leap back in the car and speed back to his hotel.
    “I’ll be going, then,” he said.
    “Oh, I don’t mean
that
,” Carlotta said. “I’m filthy right now.”
    The dog yipped happily, rushed forward, and began humping Pfefferkorn’s leg.
    “Botkin,” Carlotta said. “Botkin. Just give him a good kick, he’ll get the message.”
    Pfefferkorn knelt and gently pried the dog away. It rolled over, and he rubbed its stomach. “I should have called.” He gave the dog a pat and stood up. “I’m sorry.”
    They smiled at each other.
    “Arthur,” Carlotta said. “Dear Arthur. Welcome back.”

28.
    “Jesús, I’d like you to meet my dear friend, Arthur Pfefferkorn. Arthur, this is my tango partner, Jesús María de Lunchbox.”
    The man’s silk shirt was unbuttoned to the navel, flashing open as he bowed to Pfefferkorn and revealing a tan, muscular torso.
    “Nice to meet you,” Pfefferkorn said.
    The man bowed again.
    “Let’s call it a day,” Carlotta said. “Monday, then? The usual time?”
    “Señora,”
Jesús María said. He moved gracefully across the ballroom to collect his bag before bowing a third time and slipping away. Carlotta stood toweling off her neck and chugging from a bottle of vitamin-fortified water. She noticed Pfefferkorn frowning at the empty doorway. “What.”
    “Are you,” Pfefferkorn said. “Eh.”
    She giggled. “Oh, Arthur.”
    “It’s not my business,” he said.
    “Arthur, please. You really are too silly. He’s queer as a three-dollar bill.”
    Pfefferkorn was relieved.
    “Anyway,” she said, “I’m not sure what right you have to complain. It’s not like