Leave It to Me - Bharati Mukherjee [23]
“Hi, honey, I’m Ham.” He hung on to my hand, and gave me a deep, I-really-care-about-you look. “What’s the problem? How can I help?”
“For starters, get this dodo out of my face.”
Ham did, with an “I’ll take care of this, Mimi, but have Sam call my office and check for messages; I hope Arturo made his flight okay.”
“Good luck,” the PA said over her shoulder.
Ham glanced at Pammy Whammy. She was at the crafts-service table, flirting with a man wearing some sort of utility belt. The man was more interested in her than in the Danish in his hand.
“You looking to break into movies like everyone else?” Ham asked. “You want it, you got it. The usual rate. Fifty bucks cash for the day.”
“So that’s how you guys take care of problems?”
“That’s the rate,” Ham repeated. “Nonunion nonfeatured extra.” He leaned towards me. I felt my back press against the Corolla’s door. Dawn had started out foggy, and the car was more soaked than dewy. “Are we working it out?”
I sized up my advantage. “What is this shit?” I snapped. “Ethnic cleansing?”
“That’s pretty heavy, honey.”
“Well, here’s a counteroffer.” I slipped my hand out of his, reached in through the driver’s side window and pressed the horn and kept pressing it and let up only when he pleaded, “Okay, LA tactics always win. So how much are we talking? Are you the community rep or just acting freelance?”
I tried to think big. “A grand,” I blurted. “In cash. No deductions.”
Ham’s face relaxed. “You got it.” He laughed.
I cursed myself for thinking small-time Hudson Valley.
Ham consolidated his win. “That’s you plural. You as spokesperson of, and disburser for …”
I was a counterfeit wheeler-dealer. Ham was the genuine thing.
“What’s your community organization? My assistant’ll need a name.”
I thought he was going to call me on the scam. But he smiled instead, as though he and I were playing a game. “Have your assistant phone me.” I pointed to the pay phone.
“You have to come up with just the right name,” he advised. “Names count. How about Lower Haight Development Authority, or—”
I cut him off. “I hate authority. Development Association.” Ham looked impressed. He lifted his panama and dipped from the waist in a Japanese bow. I had a good thing going. “And what’s this Upper and Lower Haight bit, elitist scum! We’re the HDA. Your office is dealing with the HDA.”
Ham made a note on his palm with a Mont Blanc ballpoint. “My office, tomorrow. Be there?” He pulled a business card out of the pocket of his dress shirt.
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
“I’d guess so have you, honey.”
I flicked the card in through the car window. “Why should I trust you, Mr. Ham?”
The man acted stunned. Finally he said, “You have a sense of humor.”
“What’s the joke?”
“I’m Ham,” the man said. “Because I’m Ham, Hamilton Cohan. The Father of His Country, Parts I, II, III and IV?”
“A rip-off of Flash’s Boss Tong of Hong Kong, Parts I through VII,” I sneered.
“My god! You know the Flash films of Francis Fong!”
I knew from the sudden beatific sheen on the man’s baggy-eyed face that my life had turned an unexpected corner. Welcome to the Magic Kingdom. I kept my excitement low profile.
“A Fong homage,” Ham Cohan explained, “not a rip-off.” He stroked the same wrist he’d kissed, then gripped my hand and gave it a reverent shake. “I can’t believe you know Fong’s films! That makes you an automatic member of the Flash Fan Club. Want to know who else belongs? Tarantino and me.”
Mimi crackled a message on Ham’s walkie-talkie. “Arturo checked in. But dead drunk. He’s a no-show for this afternoon.”
“Gotta go,” Ham apologized. But he was still beaming at me. “So you’re a Fong fan. This has to be karma! Have lunch tomorrow? I’ll send a car. Just stand at the corner there and Sam’ll find you. Ciao until then!”
The first time I heard of karma was from the Indian burger-muncher at McDonald’s, the one who’d asked me out to an Indian movie. A moonfaced man with heavy lids and a neat goatee, he’d made his move, then handled my rejection philosophically.