Lunch In Hollywood

Max Finnaman is a high-profile producer with low-profile office suites in the Valley. He called me this afternoon to see if I wanted meet him for lunch at Hollywood Billiards. I accepted and called Hyacinth to have my Porsche pulled around to the front of the building.

Max moved to the west coast in 1990. By 1993, Max was suffering from chronic panic and delusional disorder and wound up holding a dozen people hostage at gunpoint in one of the main elevator cars at the Nancy Steuer Agency. The people at Nancy Steuer didn't want a scandal, so they dropped charges, gave Max a fat severance package and sent him on his way. Max used that money to start his own company, Gaping Wound Productions, which has been doing fairly well, considering that several of his agents on staff are large Alaskan Huskies.

I was the first to arrive at Hollywood Billiards. Max strolled in later with his Armani cue case, looking nervously around the room. I waved him over and ordered him his signature drink: Vodka and Juicy Juice.

"So, how have you been, Max?" I asked, not wanting to mention the Nancy Steuer incident.

"I'm hanging," he said. "I'm on a fine cocktail of anti-depressants. Yesterday I mistook a Fox News update for a Tom & Jerry cartoon. So, you know, the dope is working. I go to therapy when things get weird." Max's right hand began to spasm and he bit his knuckle until it bled.

"So, what are you working on now?" I asked.

"I'm thinking about putting together a documentary."

"Oh? On what?" I inquired.

"The child pornography industry," Max said, his blank eyes once again searching the room.

"That's...um...compelling."

"It's not like I have to do much research," Max said, staring at a couple of fags playing pool nearby. I decided not to ask him what he meant. "Is that Jake Gyllanhal and Heath Ledger?" Max asked, cocking his head toward the fags.

"I really don't think so," I said. And I suddenly didn't want to be there with Max anymore.

"I'm almost positive that's Jake and Heath," Max said. He drained his glass with one hard swallow and motioned the bartender for another. I noticed a small trail of blood seeping from Max's right nostril. "You wouldn't happen to know where I could score a gram of coke, would you?" Max asked, grinning at me. A drop of scarlet blood rolled over his chapped lips, which he licked clean. I thought I saw a flash of fangs.

"I really have to go," I said.

"Well. Okay. Think about my kiddy-porn documentary idea. Hell, shoot the idea over to Michael Douglas' people. I could have the writers write a role for Michael."

"Will do, Max."

As I was walking toward the doors, Max walked over to get the autographs of the strangers playing pool. I realized I never wanted to see Max Finnaman again.