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with Karen instead of sleeping in the guest room: the idea, start talking again, work on her sympathy . . .
    â€œI used the remote control thing and laid it on the floor,” Harry said. “You know what could’ve happened? The dog came in and stepped on it, turned the TV back on.”
    â€œI don’t have a dog.”
    â€œYou don’t? What happened to Muff?”
    â€œHarry, are you going down, or you want me to?”
    He wanted her to but had to be nice, obliging, to have any hope of using her.
    Getting out of bed his boxer shorts hiked up on him and he had to work them down, get the elastic band under his belly. Karen thought he was fat.
    In the study, earlier, he had told her about the story he’d optioned that could change his life, an original screenplay: no fiends or monsters, this one straight-up high-concept drama. He told her he was taking it to a major studio and Karen said, “Oh?” He told her—making it sound like an afterthought—yeah, and guess who read the script and flipped over it? Michael. No kidding, loves it. Her ex, and she didn’t say a goddamn word, not even “Oh?” or make a sound. She stared at him, smoking her cigarette. He told her he did have a few problems. One, getting past Michael’s agent, the prick, who refused to let Michael take a meeting with him. And, there was some sticky business to clean up that involved money, naturally, not to mention getting out from under his investors, a couple of undesirables who’d been financing him. Which he did mention, in detail. This was his career on the launch pad, about to either fly or go down in flames; and Karen sat there letting the ice melt in her drink, blowing menthol smoke at him. Didn’t comment outside of that one “Oh?” or ask one question, not even about Michael, till he was through and she said, “Harry, if you don’t lose thirty pounds you’re going to die.” Thanks a lot. He told her he was glad he stopped by, find out all he had to do to save his ass was join Vic Tanny.
    â€œHarry? What’re you doing?”
    â€œI’m putting my shirt on.”
    He moved to a window to be moving, doing something while he worked on the goddamn buttons.
    â€œIs that okay? So I don’t catch cold? But I’m not gonna get all dressed for some friend of yours thinks he’s funny.”
    â€œFriends don’t break in, Harry, they ring the bell.”
    â€œYeah? What about stoned they might.”
    Karen didn’t comment; she was clean now, above it. Harry looked out the window at the backyard, overgrown around the edges, a tangle of plants and old trees surrounding the lawn and the pale oval shape of the swimming pool. It looked full of leaves.
    â€œDoes Miguel skim the pool? It needs it.”
    â€œHarry—”
    He said, “I’m going,” and got as far as the door. “If somebody broke in, how come the alarm didn’t go oft?”
    â€œI don’t have an alarm.”
    â€œYou have it taken out?”
    â€œI never had one.”
    That’s right, it was the house in Westwood, where Karen had lived with him. She’d come in, forget to touch the numbers to turn it off . . . Marlene had the alarm system now and the house that went with it. He had married Marlene, his director of development, after Karen left to marry Michael. Then when both marriages ended at about the same time he told Karen it was a sign, they should get back together. Karen said she didn’t believe in signs. Which was a lie, she read her horoscope every day. Marlene was married to a guy who at one time ran production at Paramount and was now producing TVsitcoms, one of them a family with a Chihuahua that could talk. Tiny little dog with a tiny little fake Puerto Rican accent. Why chew look hat me like dat? The dog always fucking up. He was thinking of Karen in the Westwood house instead of this one, her own place, a